Something from the Citadel
by Random Equinox
Summary: My name is Garrus Vakarian. I used to be a cop. Now I help those who can't help themselves. I spend my days and nights on the Citadel, the glorious centre of the galaxy, trying to eke a living. It's not easy or glamourous, but it has to be done. Someone has to stand up, when all hope is lost...
1. You Can't Pick the Client

_Author's Note: During my writing and posting The Hero We Deserve, I put up a poll asking for readers to choose the next fanfic. While a clear majority wanted me to pursue Lair of the Shadow Broker, which I have just concluded with In the Hero's Shadow, there were some people interested in the other option: an original fanfic written from Garrus's point of view. For those people and, hopefully, many others, I present this little treat._

_Before we begin, I feel there are a few reassurances and disclaimers I have to lay out. First, I haven't forgotten ME3 or any of my fics leading up to it. I will get there. Eventually. So please don't freak out. _

_Second, discerning readers may observe a similarity between this fanfic and another book series. While there are several nods and allusions, that's as far as it goes. Garrus will not display or develop any magical gifts for finding things, his mother will not be revealed as a monster straight out of Biblical mythology—or the turian equivalent—and he will not be traipsing around in a white trench coat (not yet, anyway!). Besides, I couldn't turn Garrus into someone who eschews the use of guns. _

_Now sit back, prop your feet up and pour yourself a glass of bourbon. Or whisky. Or whatever floats your boat. _

* * *

**Something from the Citadel**

**Chapter 1: You Can't Pick the Client**

Welcome to the Citadel.

The heart of galactic civilization. A gleaming jewel in the dark. Calling out to any and all, filling their ears with promises, luring them in with hopes and dreams.

You can find anything here, out on display in the clean and sanitized streets. Countless pleasures for sale, polished to an inch of its life. All lit up to blind you to the fine print, offered with a bright smile and a hand out for your credit card. Everything for sale served up with a nod and a wink, with a side order of fantasy.

You can find anything here, lurking in the corners of every grimy alley. Dark temptations that can never see the light of day, but thrive in the shadows. Dirty secrets offering the thrill of reality while hiding the cold truth. Everything up for grabs, for a once-in-a-lifetime price. Your life.

Rub elbows with the rich and powerful, in the day that never ends. Take a stroll with the poor and downtrodden, in the night that never stops. Walk along the razor's edge of decorum and civilization. Because when nothing is what it seems and everything is possible, you never know how high you can climb.

Or how far you can fall...

* * *

They say everyone dies alone.

Like the twenty-two men and women who were killed when the Normandy was destroyed above Alchera. Like Shepard: the one sapient being who I was proud to call my mentor. My friend. The man who died as he lived—doing the right thing.

But then, you can be alive, completely healthy and still be alone. Take the human survivors from the Normandy for instance. All rounded up by the Alliance for debriefings and interrogations. All sucked up in the cold bureaucracy of rules and regulations, uncaring of little things like loss or grief or basic decency. Some of them were handling it pretty well, like Adams or Dr. Chakwas. Others, though... not so much.

Take Kaidan, for instance. Oh he talked the talk about the Alliance knowing what it was doing and cooperating with Alliance Internal Affairs was in everyone's best interests. The way he said it concerned me, though. He reminded me of the various sapients I'd run into. People who fervently quoted policy and rules like some set of commandments from the spirits. Those kinds of people had usually suffered a great loss of some sort and were trying to fill that void with something. _Anything_. In Kaidan's case, it didn't take a genius to figure out what that loss was.

Or Liara. The asari archaeologist whose knowledge helped thwart an invasion by forces beyond my wildest and darkest imaginings. Quiet by nature, she'd gone completely silent in the hours and days spent spinning around in an escape pod. She finally spoke after our rescuers took us back to the Citadel, saying that she would find Shepard or die trying. Like Kaidan, she wasn't so much dealing with her loss—_our _loss—as much as pouring herself into a self-imposed quest. Or purposefully drowning in an obsession of her creation. I couldn't really judge her, though. Not when I was doing such a miserable job of dealing with my own grief. How could I help her when I couldn't even help myself? Turned out that I couldn't. So I watched as she started rambling about following up on a lead that even I would find tenuous. Before I knew it, she had booked passage on some outgoing shuttle. I never saw her again.

Then there was Wrex. The krogan battlemaster. Once the youngest tribal leader in krogan history, now a hardened and bitter merc-for-hire. Giving up on the future because there was no hope for his people. Resigned to screwing over other people because he'd been screwed over in his efforts to change things for the better. Until he met Shepard. Now he was all about returning to Tuchanka. About reclaiming his rightful place and reuniting Clan Urdnot. About unifying all the krogan clans and trying something new. Something different. You could feel his excitement radiating from him every time he talked about a bold, brave future for his people, where hope was once again possible. I wished him luck as he boarded the transport for Tuchanka, all the while wishing I had a scrap of his optimism. After all, he was centuries older than I was. Shouldn't he be the one thinking that nothing could ever change?

And how could I forget Tali? The little quarian that could. Sharp as a talon. Always working for the greater good, no matter what anyone—even a short-sighted turian idiot—said. How many quarians would put their own Pilgrimage on hold to help a complete stranger? How many people would put their own dreams and desires aside to help save the galaxy when the galaxy had never once bothered to care about them? Tali did, because she never lost faith in the importance of doing the right thing. She never asked for anything in return. Maybe she thought that, if she worked hard enough, people would recognize her altruism and generosity, and return it in kind. If that was the case, then it all paid off: Shepard rewarded her with a copy of classified geth data. He did more for her in a matter of seconds than most people had in years. Though Shepard probably would've done it even if there weren't any favours 'owed.' In any event, she too had left, having saved the galaxy while _still _managing to finish her Pilgrimage. By now, she should be halfway back to the Migrant Fleet.

I never got to say goodbye. To Tali or Wrex or any of them. I was too busy, I told myself. Too busy trying to change the galaxy. Look where that got me: nowhere. I'd failed. Story of my life. I failed to be a good turian soldier. I failed to follow my father's example and be a good C-Sec officer. I failed to save my friend.

And when I returned to the Citadel? I began training to become a Spectre. Then, when that didn't work, I rejoined C-Sec. Turns out Special Tactics and Recon has one thing in common with Citadel Security: both of them are mired in too much pointless bureaucracy and paperwork. It's a miracle they get anything done. I couldn't stand it, so I quit. Another failure.

Even worse, no one would listen to my warnings. Or Tali's or Wrex's or Liara's or even Kaidan's. No one with any power or authority wanted to believe that this was just the first skirmish in a war that was coming. They'd rather spin a story about rogue Spectres and geth invaders who had been beaten and now everyone could now live happily ever after.

But maybe I could still make a difference.

* * *

After quitting C-Sec, I tracked down a small-time smuggler named Kishpaugh who'd been funnelling drugs onto the streets for years. He'd escaped justice because I couldn't build a good enough case to satisfy C-Sec.

On my own, though... that was another matter. I hunted him down. I made him talk. He told me that he got his filthy drugs from Omega. If I could make my way there and cut off the flow of drugs at the source, then I would have finally made a difference. Finally succeeded at _something_.

All I had to do was buy a ticket. Easy enough, you'd think. Except that I couldn't pay for it. Virtually all of the credits I'd scrimped and saved over the years had gone to pay for my mother's medical bills. All I had left was my C-Sec severance package. Which wasn't really anything to brag about.

I started offering my services to people who needed help but couldn't afford to wait for the cogs of bureaucracy to finish grinding. Solving mysteries and helping people, like Shepard did. All for a reasonable fee. And on the down-low, as humans would say—if word got out that I was working as a private investigator, I'd have to make it official. That meant paperwork and licensing fees. I had no patience for the former and no credits to spare for the latter. Unfortunately, being an unofficial private investigator meant the paychecks didn't exactly come streaming in. More like a trickle. A very anemic and pathetic trickle.

That's how I wound up in the dirtiest level of the dirtiest apartment complex in the dirtiest Ward on the Citadel, in an effort to stretch my last few credits as far as they'd go. My apartment was cozy, if you wanted to be polite. I called it as I saw it: cramped and lonely. And cheap. Anyone with any sense or any decent-sized account had long since moved out. That left the desperate, the criminals, and the people who danced in the greyer areas of the law. Like my next-door neighbour, a salarian pharmacist who insisted he was on his way to something bigger and better, if only he could get that loan shark and her enforcers off his back. Because that was his only problem. He did not have a gambling problem. He could stop visiting the casinos and the online gambling sites whenever he wanted. Really.

Or the human down the hall, who pretended she didn't welcome one or two strangers into her quarters every night. It wasn't always what it seemed—half the time, they were there to buy some crops from her illegal hydroponics garden. As for the other half of the time, well, let's just say I thank the spirits for the genius who invented soundproofing.

Sadly, both of them made more money than I did. They could actually depend on a steady paycheck, which was more than I could say.

The lights in my hallway were flickering the night Jassara Bevos came to see me. The kind of feeble, anemic flickering that cast more shadows than light. Clearly the spirits were trying to tell me something, but I was never any good at listening to them.

I'd somehow made it back after doing an odd job for another neighbour, who was convinced that his boyfriend was cheating on him. That led to a delightful night visiting bar after club after bar after club after bar, killing my brain cells with one horribly expensive—and, well, just plain horrible—drink after another while my ear drums went on strike.

Not to mention all the contact info I didn't want. I mean, there were plenty of turian women in all those establishments. And asari. The odd quarian or two. And some of the humans looked quite attractive. You'd think that I'd attract attention from one of them. But no. I just _had _to get hit on by every single drunk volus and elcor instead.

I got the proof I needed in the end. Not that my client wanted it. He didn't believe me. He didn't want to hear the truth. Not surprising, really. People always say they want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But in reality, they almost never do. They only want some heavily sanitized version that's been carefully crafted to make them happy. A lie they can swallow in a glass of fantasy to make them feel better. But I never play that game. I deal in facts and truth, no matter how cold or how bitter.

Which is probably how I wound up where I was today. Stuck in a cold, cramped excuse for an apartment, staring at my credit account. It was slightly fatter for the down payment my client had given me—that was all he gave me, as he'd been too upset to give me the rest of my fee—but it was also a hell of a lot lighter, thanks to all the overpriced drinks I'd been forced to drink during this spirits-damned job. My head was still pounding, so I missed the footsteps at first. But, eventually, I managed to push through the headache and hear them. Steady, confident and light. Sounded like a woman. Probably human.

The door chime rang, driving a spike right through my head crests and into my brain. I stumbled to my feet, hoping to get to the door before the mysterious woman pressed the door chime again. Unfortunately, I missed and hit the wall instead. Twice. The door chime drilled a couple more holes in my head. I slapped at the control panel, talons fumbling as I entered in the keycode. Eventually I got the door open.

The woman who was trying to torture me turned out to be an asari. Go figure, as the humans say. She walked in as if she owned the place, with the surety and confidence that came only with centuries of practise. Her clothes consisted of a white suit with gold trim and a sky-blue blouse. Subtle rather than overt, elegant rather than striking—which meant it must have cost a small fortune. Judging by the way she held herself, she was used to the best. The best clothes, the best company, the best everything.

I saw her eyes slowly pan around my room. It was easy to guess what she was seeing. A cheap desk made of scrap metal precariously tilted to one side, more from its own poor construction than the pile of datapads on top, with only a couple stools for company. A battered secondhand shelf full of vids and datapads, scrounged from a former neighbour who'd taken pity on me. A small vid-screen on the wall, showing some turian 'reality show'. A small mini-fridge formerly filled with ready-to-eat meals, judging by the overflowing garbage bin next to it. A mattress on the stained floor, sporting a dented pillow and a few rumpled blankets thrown to one side. Nothing that belonged to what humans called an up-and-comer.

It was clear from the stiffness in the asari's spine that she'd rather be struck dead on the spot than waste a single moment in this dump. I found that amusing for some reason. She stared at me, judging me. I gave her my best unimpressed stare and gestured to a stool.

She sat down without hesitation or making an effort to clean it first. Quite brave. Or naive.

I slowly walked around the desk and sat on the other stool. The asari stared at me, then jerked her head towards the vid-screen. Taking the hint, I turned it off. "Something to listen to at the end of the day," I said.

"Or the start," she said.

I looked at my chronometer. It was 0200. Spirits, I'd completely lost track of the time.

"You're Garrus Vakarian?"

"That's me," I confirmed.

"Do you realize there's a dead turian outside?" she asked.

"Only one?" I asked in return. "Scavengers must've taken the other two."

For a moment, I thought she was going to get up and march out the door. It's been known to happen. Instead, she glared at me. I waited for her to make the first move. People like her expect to get the first word in. Makes them feel important. And I could tolerate a little arrogance if it meant getting a decent paycheck. By the look of things, she could give me more than that.

Wait. That sounded dirty. Mind you, I'd had one hell of a dry spell.

"I'm Jassara Bevos," the asari said, interrupting my train of thought before it could plunge into the gutters.

"Pleased to meet you," I replied. More to be polite than because I actually meant it.

"You don't have the slightest clue who I am, do you?" Bevos asked.

What was her first hint, I wondered. "Should I?"

"Perhaps not," she sniffed. "You don't seem to be the sort of person who follows the news."

"I've been known to do so on occasion," I corrected her. "If I'm bored. Or if I'm checking out a client. Are you a client?"

"Maybe."

I looked at her again—her clothes, her bearing—and calculated a tentative figure. "Excellent," I said. "What can I do for you?"

A look rippled across her face. Some might have mistook that for hesitation. But it wasn't. Not entirely. There was also a healthy dose of... discomfort. I got the feeling she wasn't used to any of this. Going to places like this. Talking to people instead of giving them orders. It was all new to her. Beneath her. And she didn't like it one bit. But she didn't have any other choice. I watched her as she slowly realized that and pushed herself to start talking.

"I need someone with a certain skill set," Bevos said at last. "Someone familiar with investigations and the streets, but doesn't have to waste time with bureaucracy and paperwork."

Sounded like my kind of woman. That should have set off all sorts of alarms. It probably did, come to think of it, only I couldn't hear it over the pounding in my skull. Spirits, my head _hurt_. "Yes, I do hate filling out forms. Waste of ones and zeros."

She shot me another glare, as cold as the void of space. Apparently she wasn't looking for sympathy or sarcasm. Maybe she should be looking for an optometrist. All that staring and glaring couldn't be good for her eyes. And she could certainly afford one, if her clothes were any indication. I waited for her to explain why she was here. To tell me what she needed. But she didn't say anything.

...

Anything at all.

...

Well, this was going nowhere fast. Time to try a different tactic.

"Is it blackmail?" I tried. "Someone found out some dirty little secret of yours that you just can't bear to let out? Something that might affect your standing or reputation? A skeleton in the closet that might tarnish your good name?

"Or maybe you think a significant other is cheating on you. Just wrapped up a similar case last night. Is that what this is about? Is a special someone growing a bit distant from you? Complaining of a headache every time you put on the lingerie and—"

Bevos activated her omni-tool before I could go any further. Shame, really. I was just getting started. A young asari's face shimmered into life, floating above her wrist. "My daughter, Zephyria. She's thirty-eight. Answers to 'Zephi' when she wants to be obstinate, which is always."

That, I could tell for myself. The pic showed a young asari glaring out, like she was mad at the whole galaxy and wanted to give it a one-talon salute out of general principle. Definite family resemblance, there.

"She's missing. I want you to find her for me."

"Missing as in kidnapping or—"

"No," Bevos shook her head. "Nothing like that."

"What makes you sure?" I wanted to know. "You're sure no one would benefit from Zephi's absence?"

"I'm successful. And wealthy. But... not... that wealthy. It wouldn't be... worth a kidnapper's... time."

Oh, I could tell that _hurt. _Every word. Every syllable. And she hated me for forcing that admission out of her. Part of me felt guilty for that. A very small part. Mostly I just felt smug for taking the arrogant bitch down a notch.

"In a way, it would be easier if she was kidnapped. At least then there would be some kind of contact with a ransom demand. But no, she simply ran away—which is worse."

"Worse?"

"There are several people who would enjoy gossiping and speculating at my expense."

Of course. Because it was all about her. It must be difficult being the centre of the galaxy. Such a heavy burden. "When did she disappear?"

"Last night."

"How did she—"

"Don't you think I haven't asked that myself?" Bevos snapped. "If I knew that, I'd have made sure the ungrateful little wretch didn't slip out in the first place!"

My headache was getting worse. The fact that I was grinding my mandibles against each other didn't help. "So this has happened before?" I asked.

"Only every other month."

"Why this time? What happened?"

"Oh, the usual," Bevos waved a hand impatiently. "Some argument about how I never listen to her and don't get her and how she wished I was dead. Never mind that I've given her everything. The best suite, the best clothes, the best education. And still she just runs away. Typical."

"I haven't heard anything about her... other parent," I said. It was always tricky figuring out what to call an asari's parents. On the one hand, asari were mono-gendered. On the other hand, everyone called them all women. Even asari did that. Major pain in the ass, believe me.

"Dead," she dismissed. "Best thing the bastard ever did."

"Any other family that Zephi might have visited?"

"No one. I'm all she's got. She's all I have."

Spirits. What a delightful life it must've been for Zephi.

"Are there any—"

"No problems with red sand or any other drugs, barely drinks any alcohol, no boyfriend or girlfriend issues," Bevos interrupted. "I never raised a hand or raised my voice, either. And still she just ran away."

That brought to mind a human saying about complaining too much. Apparently it came from a play by some ancient human playwright. "Did you contact C-Sec? This is right up their alley?"

"Already did. Useless idiots. They took my statement, issued some useless platitudes about it being too soon. Young women did this thing all the time and they almost always turned up safe somewhere, blah, blah, blah. It's just part of growing up and proving to themselves that they can be their own person out in the big universe, yadeyadeyadah. Especially with asari and their long lifespans. No dead asari has turned up so don't worry. Everything'll be just fine."

I leaned back, as if thoughtfully and carefully considering what she'd told me. Little trick I learned a long time ago, one that helps appease the civvies. What Bevos wanted seemed pretty straightforward. The actual execution would be much more complicated, of course. Tracking down and finding her runaway daughter wasn't going to be easy. But then I was a bit short on funds. Shorter than I had been yesterday, as a matter of fact. I wasn't exactly in a position to be picky.

Having decided that I'd waited long enough, I leaned forward and put on my most serious and thoughtful look. "Let me see if I understand this. Your daughter has run away. Again. She's been gone for one standard day. And rather than wait for her to get cold and tired and return on her own, or for C-Sec to launch its own missing persons investigation, you want me to go out, find her and drag her back kicking and screaming."

"I'm paying you for a job, not to give me lip."

Guess that struck a little too close to home. And now she thought she could regain the upper hand by treating me like one of her underlings or sycophants. After facing geth, husks, Thorian creepers, more geth and the end of the galaxy as I knew it, a snooty asari who was a prime candidate for Neglectful Parent of the Year was nothing. Still, her self-absorbed disregard for her own kid rubbed my face plates raw. Even if I did need the money. So I added another digit or two to the figure I'd calculated earlier before opening my mouth.

"I charge two hundred credits per hour, plus expenses. And one thousand credits up front."

"That's a lot of money."

Of course she'd say that. "It's your daughter we're talking about," I reminded her.

She was already nodding in agreement. I had the feeling that this conversation would've gone the same way even if I'd charged ten times more. For people like her, everything boiled down to credits.

Bevos activated her omni-tool and tapped in a few commands. "Five thousand credits," she said simply. "Enough to get you started."

I checked my omni-tool. Sure enough, I was now five thousand credits richer. Excellent. Almost enough to handle my rent, daily expenses as well as the price of that ticket to Omega. It's amazing how many problems could be solved by four digits.

So why did I feel like I was missing something?

"One more thing."

That's why. "Yes?"

"She has to be back home by tomorrow night."

Right. Just like that. "Do you have any idea how big the Citadel is?" I asked.

"Better than you, I'm sure," Bevos sniffed.

"Somehow, I don't think you get it," I replied, leaning forward. "There are tons of cubby-holes, alleyways, maintenance ducts and other hiding spots scattered throughout the Citadel. Hidden in the midst of millions of locals and tourists. You're asking me to find one individual in the midst of all that."

"I'm not paying you to lecture me," Bevos snapped. "I'm paying you to do a job."

"A job that you want completed in less than thirty-five hours," I frowned. Not to mention a job that I'd agreed to before fully understanding what it entailed. Why oh why didn't I read the fine print? "Why the rush?"

"That's not your concern. Just get that ungrateful little child of mine back home by 1700 tomorrow evening. Do we have a deal?"

I had the feeling that I was missing something. Why the sudden urgency to get her daughter back? Why come to me instead of C-Sec or the dozens of private investigator agencies scattered across the Citadel? Why now?

"Do we have a deal?" Bevos repeated.

For that matter, did I want to do this? It was clear that their relationship _(was) _far from loving, nurturing or stable? Was I really doing Zephi any favours by returning her to her mother?

But then, I'd lived on the Citadel for several years now. I'd walked down her streets and through her alleys. As glamorous and exciting as the Citadel might be, it was also full of dangers. Predators. And while a thirty-eight year old asari might seem mature and responsible by the standards of most species, she was probably a little too young and overconfident for her own good.

In the end, it boiled down to two simple facts. A little girl was out there somewhere on the Citadel, all alone. And I might be the only one who could help her.

"We have a deal," I said at last.


	2. Those Old Blue, Blue Stomping Grounds

**Chapter 2: Those Old Blue, Blue Stomping Grounds **

I was in C-Sec for many years. While there were a lot of things I hated about it, I have to admit it wasn't all bad. At least with C-Sec, I would have had resources. Access to surveillance footage. The ability to tap and monitor credit accounts. Colleagues, if not friends, who could spread out, establish search grids and cover more ground. Networks of informants to tap for whatever intel their eyes and ears could gather. Even when fighting against the hidebound bureaucracy that dogged my very existence, I could have gotten _something_.

Without C-Sec and its resources behind me, the only way I could find Zephi was to scrape up a lead, follow it to the end and hope that I could pick up another lead. To be honest, the odds of finding Zephi on my own wasn't that great. With the timeframe Bevos had given me… well, I'd have better luck throwing myself out the airlock and breathing in the cold vacuum of space.

It would be easier if I could just get on the comm and contact one of my old colleagues. But none of them liked me _that _much. Okay, okay—half of them didn't like me that much. The other half hated the very sight of me. As soon as they saw the ID tag attached to my comm signal, they could cut the connection, ignore it until I gave up or block the call.

That was why I had to go there in person. Much harder to ignore me or block me out.

Having made that decision, the next move was to make a list. I liked lists. Gives me that sense of completion when things are checked off or crossed out.

Step One: gather supplies for my trip to C-Sec. Depending on how things went, it could be a long, long, _long _haul. So I had to be prepared. That involved digging a certain mattress out from underneath my desk. And rummaging through the mini-fridge. Spirits willing, I was mistaken in my earlier alcohol-soaked recollections and I _hadn't _cleaned it out yet. Maybe there were still a few provisions. Nothing fancy, but as long as it was pre-made and wouldn't spoil at room temperature, I'd be satisfied.

Step Two: calibrate my weapons. If I managed to get what I needed from C-Sec, my next stop could be slightly more hazardous. And potentially fatal. Shouldn't take long, I figured, since I'd already done a full calibration before going club-hopping for my last job. Unless there were some targeting software patches that had been posted in the last ten hours.

Step Three: get some sleep. The clock was already ticking and I had to be as sharp as possible. I wouldn't do Zephi any good if I collapsed out of fatigue after all...

Then something occurred to me. I made a slight change to my list. Step Two: gather supplies. Step Three: calibrate my weapons. Step Four: get some sleep.

And what was Step One, you ask? Go to my medicine cabinet and get some painkillers. My head was _killing _me.

* * *

Public transit on the Citadel, like anything else, has its ups and downs.

A lot of people—especially newcomers or tourists—focus on the problems, most of which are predictable. It never seems to be on time, they say. There are never enough trains, how could the centre of galactic society have such a crappy infrastructure, it never used to be this bad and the perennial favourite: someone should really do something about this.

But if there weren't so many problems, the Citadel Ministry of Transportation would have nothing to do. Really. As bad as public transit is now, it was a lot worse when I first joined C-Sec. It's a lot more reliable and user-friendly than it used to be. Still has its issues, mind you, but you have to look at it the right way. Knowing the ins and outs of public transit? _That's_ what separates the locals from the rest.

Though complaining about all the transit problems gets you pretty damn close.

The first trick is finding the fastest way to get to the public transit station. That means knowing when _not _to follow the official routes. You know, the ones that Avina's always recommending? The ones that are carefully mapped and highlighted in all the tourist apps and neon signs and recorded public service announcements? They're _always_ packed, except at the end of the day when the criminal scum, the desperate and the ignorant come out to play. And no, I'm not going to tell you which category I fall into.

Anyway, I could go to the PTS—that's Public Transit Station for those of you who don't speak Citadel, not a misspelled acronym for the condition that females go through every monthly cycle—that's closest to my apartment. But there's always gang activity down there. The players change from month to month—at the moment, it was a three-way tussle between the West End Wolves, the Tenth Street Reds and the Blue Suns. Wolves had the advantage of being a local group, unlike the other two upstarts. But the Blue Suns were far more organized and had more resources to draw upon. Tenth Street Reds... yeah, no one had much hope for a two-bit gang from Earth. It was a miracle they scraped up the credits to get here in the first place.

Danger aside, that particular PTS was run-down. As in 'probably slated for demolition once it passes through all the Citadel Ministry of Transportation meetings and gets all the paperwork signed off in triplicate.' Assuming someone doesn't burn it down first. Or the air conditioners don't go on the fritz and send a strong gust towards it. And considering how fast bureaucracy works and the fact that Shepard isn't around to wreak his usual amount of property damage...

...

Spirits, I miss him.

Anyway, that PTS was out. Normally the keepers would be all over it, but I guess they had their claws full cleaning up the Presidium—or rather, they had their claws full redoing and improving our attempts at cleaning up the Presidium. There was another PTS I had in mind, however. Much more reliable. But it was two levels up. Now I could just get out, walk to the closest elevator system and wait an eternity. But I had a better idea. All I had to do was get out on the usual time, go to the balcony and wait. Skycar, no. Luxury skycar, tempting for the joy of pissing off the driver for touching his baby if nothing else, but no. Skycar—

"Oh my god! That turian's going to jump!"

"Somebody do something!"

"Wait! Isn't that... oh hell, it's Garrus!"

"Garrus Vakarian?"

"Yeah!"

"Oh God! Everybody, RUN!"

I was used to that by now. You'd think the local civvies would be grateful that I found a way to dispose of that bomb before it went off. I could've left it at the bottom of the apartment complex and let it take out the whole building. Or I could have tossed it out the window and let it explode in the children's park. Instead, I threw it in the elevator, sent it to the top floor and let it blow there.

And were the local civvies grateful? No! They kept blaming me for putting their elevator out of service! And they'd been doing that for over a year now!

Now where was I? Right. Skycar, no. Another skycar, no. Ah! Skytruck with a Saronis Applications logo on it. Perfect! I waited, let it get closer...

...and...

...jumped.

Didn't quite get the timing right. I stumbled a bit as I landed on the roof of the skytruck. Maybe I was a bit rusty from all those months spent running around on the Normandy, chasing the bad guys and shooting them. But I didn't bounce off it and crash face first on the pavement, so I guess I still had the touch.

Now, there was a method to my madness. I picked that skytruck because I knew where Saronis Applications was and the routes that its delivery skytrucks usually took. Assuming the routes hadn't changed, of course. It had been a year since I walked the beat, after all. If they had, I could be way off course. Boy, would that be embarrassing or what?

Thankfully they hadn't. The skytruck took me five blocks south and two blocks up—right where the PTS was located. Even stopped at the intersection so I could hop off.

Yeah. I still got it. It's not easy being me but... I manage.

As I entered the PTS, paying the fees at the ticket booth and uttering the obligatory curse at the latest price hike, I double-checked the schedule. The next arrival was still listed to arrive... well... now. Which meant it would actually arrive anywhere from one to three minutes.

While waiting, I looked around the station. Hadn't really changed all that much. Still the same bland, pastel walls. Still the odd stain that Citadel Maintenance hadn't quite managed to remove—the one C-Sec insisted wasn't blood. Which was true, by the way. It wasn't blood. It was blood, krogan bile, caustic chemicals, keeper guts and prune juice. And yes, writing up _that _report was as painful and disgusting as it sounds.

Still the usual amount of graffiti, I noted. Some of it was really good, mind you. Beautiful vistas of alien landscapes. Brilliant pieces of social commentary that was as thought-provoking as it was breathtaking. But there were also the more low-brow tags and scrawls. Someone had misspelled 'Palaven' again. Seriously—there are two 'a's' in Palaven. Is it really that hard to write? Kids these days.

Uh oh. Is this what Father meant when he said he felt old?

There was the usual mix of characters, patiently waiting for the next train to arrive. A pair of buskers were singing. Or competing, judging by all the glaring that was going on between them. Not to mention the proximity—there were half a dozen rules about that. Everyone who got their license had to follow the rules. Unless they were illegal ones. Probably illegal—no way a legal, licensed busker would butcher the asari national anthem like that, striking as close to home as it did. Even if his version did sound better.

A krogan was shuffling on his feet, clearly uncomfortable in his business suit. His hand kept unconsciously flexing, no doubt missing the heavy weight and cold steel of a shotgun. Or assault rifle. Or something big and loud. His other hand... okay. I'm sure that suit wasn't custom-tailored. I could tell it didn't quite fit. But I really, _really_ didn't need to see him reach down into his pants just to give his quad some breathing room!

Looking away—and hoping the mental images would fade—I saw a salarian talking to a salarian in costume. Looked like... what did humans call it? Drag? Strangest thing I'd seen, well, in the last ten minutes. Maybe twenty.

And then there was the turian. Must be a teenager. Only turian teenagers strutted around in neon-yellow hardsuits with neon orange stripes and flashing red LEDs. Almost blinded me. Not that I could judge—let he who never highlighted his facial tattoos with fluorescent paint cast the first stone.

A three-toned chime interrupted my observations. _"Your attention, please," _Avina announced. _"The next train for the Presidium will be arriving shortly. Please stand back from the platform edge and stay behind the red line."_

Next stop: C-Sec.

* * *

Citadel Security Services, as C-Sec is formally called, is many things.

Enforcement's usually the side of C-Sec that most civvies see. Walking the beat on patrol, writing tickets for minor infractions. Cooling hot tempers and settling disputes before they get out of hand. Responding to emergencies and managing the situation before the paramedics arrive.

It's also a means of Investigation. To process crime scenes, ask hard questions and gather evidence. To solve the mystery in each and every crime. And bringing the dirtbags to justice. That last one was always my favourite part.

Then there's Customs. Yes, the wooden-faced men and women who make you stand in lines, pat you down, confiscate contraband and generally cause unreasonable delays that make you want to contact your local politician and whine are C-Sec officers. Because occasionally they do important things like arresting smugglers, terrorists and other scumbags.

Let's not forget the Network crew. Cybercrime technicians and officers who delve into the fascinating high-tech world of ID theft, copyright theft, hacking, viral attacks and illegal use of VI and AI software. Well, they say it's fascinating. I say it's a snoozefest.

I'd always wanted to join Special Response. They're the guys who handle hostage situations, bomb threats and dirt bags packing serious heat. If the Citadel was ever attacked, they'd be the front line of interior defence, loaded up with mil-spec weaponry. Of course, that only went so far when dealing with Saren and his geth buddies.

Last but not least is Patrol. The galactic equivalent of the coast guard, they conducted search and rescue operations, kept piracy to a reasonable level and intercepted illegal goods being moved to and from. Originally, they weren't responsible for defending the Citadel from naval attack. But since the Citadel Fleet had been so badly hammered from an onslaught of geth warships, Patrol had to take up some of the slack.

So C-Sec had a lot of jobs covered underneath its umbrella. It's all very complex and very much interconnected.

But at its very core, it's nothing more than a bureaucracy.

A bureaucracy run by rules and regulations, procedures and forms. A carefully constructed organization designed to deal with a constant and never-ending bombardment of requests and demands and orders. And the one nightmare that is consistent with each and every bureaucracy was the fear that someone, somewhere, would go blundering in and bring it to a screeching halt.

It was that very fear that I was banking on as I strolled into C-Sec—Step Five of my little list. I came in through the Presidium entrance at 0600 sharp. Start of the day shift, you see. That particular posting was usually reserved for the probies who were just starting out and could only handle situations like tourists or civvies looking for their children, as opposed to the Wards entrance, which was usually manned by grizzled veterans who were used to rampaging mobs hopped up on red sand and heavily armed pirates.

"Welcome to Citadel Security Services. How may I help y—oh hell, it's you."

Ah, Eddie. Officer Edward Lang, but everyone called him Eddie. Perfect. Not quite fresh-off-the-ship, but he'd only been with C-Sec for two years. Less, actually. Still changing his hair color—when we first met, it was black. When Shepard first encountered him, it was blond. Now it was red. "Hi there, Eddie!" I said brightly.

"What do you want, Garrus?" Eddie groaned. "I still have nightmares from the last time I saw you!"

"I was helping a client whose son was addicted to Hallex," I reminded him. You'd think people would remember important facts like that.

"You shot up a pet shop!"

Instead of nursing grudges over annoying, minor little details. "They were smuggling the ingredients in through the pet food."

"So you had to shoot every single aquarium?"

"Water's a very good conductor of electricity. Which came in handy when I was shorting out their shields." I was quite proud of myself for thinking of that. Note to self: having a portable means of doing that would be really useful in future fights.

"I'm _still_ clearing water out of my ears!"

"And, again, I'm sorry." I wasn't. Not really. Eddie was just pissed because he'd just had his hair gelled or styled or whatever for his date that evening. Not to mention all that water had shorted out his omni-tool.

"Look, what do you want?"

There we go. "I just need access to some missing persons files."

Eddie looked at me like I was crazy. People do that for some reason. Usually that's followed by a whole lot of objections and occasional gun fighting. I was pretty sure Eddie wouldn't do the latter... but he was carrying his standard-issue sidearm. Time to make my pitch before his trigger-finger got itchy. "Look, Eddie, I'm not going anywhere until I get access."

"I can't get that from here," Eddie pointed out.

Yeah, that was true. No one could. We didn't want just anyone getting easy access to our secure database of C-Sec files, investigations, missing persons reports, forensic reports, case summaries and just about everything else. The only thing you could get from Eddie's terminal was civvie-cleared stuff like tourist maps or lists of dos-and-don'ts. I knew that already. But I had something else in mind: "No, I know you can't. But you can let me into C-Sec so I can find someone who can. Or a terminal with access, at least."

"You know I can't do that either!"

"Suit yourself," I sighed, reaching over my shoulder.

Eddie tensed up. His hand drifted down. No doubt he thought I was reaching for a gun. Good to see his instincts hadn't dulled, especially since that was where my sniper rifle was holstered. Not that I was going to shoot up C-Sec. I'm poor, not suicidal. No, I had a better plan in mind.

As Eddie watched, I pulled out the mattress I'd been storing under my desk and started the automatic inflater. "What are you doing?" he asked slowly.

"Making a seat of my own," I replied. "Seats are a bit hard—we know that better than anyone, don't we? Anyway, I'm gonna just camp out here until someone gets me what I need."

"Uh..."

"Oh, don't worry about me," I smiled, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a small bag. "I brought snacks," I explained, shaking the bag. "Probably fresher than the dextro-goods that C-Sec carries in the vending machines—you know how Management never renews the food supply contracts until they expire."

"So... you're just going to wait? And munch on snacks?"

"And regale anyone who walks by with horror stories of how many times C-Sec's screwed the canine," I said with a smile.

...

"Did I get it wrong? I always mangle human slang phrases."

...

"Hey, remember the time when C-Sec provided security on what we thought was an elcor diplomatic summit?" I grinned. "And it turned out to be their version of a bachelor party? How much taxpayer money did we spend again?"

Eddie practically lunged towards his console. A door hissed open. "Thank you," I said pleasantly, deflating my mattress.

I pretended to ignore the muttered curses he spat out as I folded up the mattress, put it away, made my way out of the office, down the hallway and into the elevator—right. The elevator. Activating my omni-tool, I quickly tapped in a few commands. The first stirring notes of the turian imperial anthem blared out. "Die for the Cause" might not be my first choice, but it sure beat the crap that usually counted for elevator music. Though I should really look into expanding my music files. You can only be patriotic for so long, after all.

That sentiment, by the way, is one of many reasons why I'll never be a proper turian.

The elevator ride took _forever_. As usual. I don't know who thought that making the elevators go as slowly as possible was a good idea. Funny thing: it never used to bother me. I used to _like _long elevator rides. Gave me a chance to exchange idle conversation with the other passengers. When I think of the times I used to spend chatting with Shep—with Tali or Liara. Even Wrex. Spirits, I missed them.

After a long, long, looooooooong minute, the elevator made it to C-Sec Academy. I stepped out of the elevator and looked around the foyer. It hadn't changed a bit. Still dark blue stairs. And dark blue floors. And dark blue walls. And dark blue ceiling. Kinda depressing, and not just because it suggested that C-Sec saved a ton of creds by buying dark blue paint in bulk.

No, it just always depressed me because it made me feel so small, the way the walls stretched all the way up to the ceiling. Just like the Presidium, but not as awe-inspiring. More like me and my tiny mortal sins against the huge, vast forces of Law and Order and Justice.

Of course, there was a reason for that height: the elevator shafts. Every single one encased in see-through glass and transparisteel, at taxpayer's expense, so C-Sec officers could watch incoming and outgoing traffic for any break-ins or breakouts. A good idea, I guess, but it was a pain in the ass to clean.

Looking around, I noted other things. The overly bright lighting and lettering. The overly bright vid-screens showing everything from interstellar traffic to news feeds to wanted ads. It was almost as if they were trying to compensate for the depressing blue hues that covered _everything_. To cast a shining, relentless light into the murk and shadows. The only thing that wasn't dark blue was the neon white lighting. And the elevator cars and offices, all of which had grey walls and floors and... well, you get the idea.

All right. Enough sightseeing. Time to get to work.

Like I said, every bureaucracy fears the person who will blunder in and screw everything up. Well, I'd just blundered in. The other C-Sec officers hadn't realized that yet, judging by the lack of shouting and screaming and gun-pointing, but it was only a matter of time. When _that _happened, one of two things would happen. Either they'd gave me what I wanted before I screwed something up... or they'd toss me out on my ass before I screwed everything up. Personally, I preferred the former. History suggested the latter was more likely, but I like to stay optimistic. There's the slim chance that I'll be pleasantly surprised.

Now to find a sympathetic ear... well, no. That wouldn't happen. I didn't exactly leave C-Sec on the best of terms. Unless the definition of 'best of terms' changed to involve yelling, arm-waving, screaming, throwing the datapad at yours truly, more yelling, lots of whispering and being held up as the poster child of how _not _to be a good, dutiful C-Sec officer.

What I needed was someone who owed me a favour... um. No. That wouldn't happen either. No one still working with C-Sec owed me _that _big a favour.

"Hey, does that turian look familiar to you?"

Uh oh. I'd been made. Why didn't I put some more thought into Step Six? Think, Garrus, _think_...

Oh, spirits. I had an idea. It was a painful, horrible one, but I had no choice. Not with a kid on the line.

I quickly made my way through the crowds and up the stairs. Take a left, skip the first door on the left, keep going, go through the second door on the left and...

...there we go! Good ol' Chellick. Average height, average build, average eye colour. Average, average, average. The kind of boring, nondescript average that nobody paid attention to and everyone would forget. Perfect for undercover work.

His reputation for following procedure and slowly—too slowly if you ask me—building airtight cases made him popular with the higher-ups. There were rumours that he'd be the obvious choice for Executor if Pallin stepped down for any reason. Chellick always squashed those rumours, though. He had no time for that, he said. Too many cases to solve, too many people to help. On that, at least, we could agree.

Besides, if he became Executor, he'd inevitably play things safe. Just as C-Sec liked. Too many people played it safe as it was. That's why I left.

"Hi, Chellick!" I said brightly.

Chellick stiffened. He looked up. "That's—"

"Detective Chellick," I quickly added, raising my talons in surrender. "I know, I know. Just wanted to get your attention."

His faced twisted like he'd swallowed a lemon. Which shouldn't have been possible considering the high risk of going into anaphylactic shock. Of course, some dextros are more sensitive than others. "You got it when you strolled into C-Sec at 0610," he snapped. "A full fifty minutes before civilians and other people without clearance are permitted."

All part of my plan.

"I oughta haul your ass out myself. Or lock you in the brig for causing a disturbance."

That—not part of the plan. Maybe I should've taken a more conciliatory approach. I'm sure Shepard would have done that. But this was more fun. Watching Chellick's plates ripple? Totally. Worth it. I took a moment to savour it.

Then I got back to business. "Yes, I know I should've waited until public opening hours like any other civvie—"

"Exactly! Spirits, you were arrogant when you first joined C-Sec, but you've gotten even worse!"

"—but I need your help."

"You're a disgrace to everything... wait, what?"

Yeah. I said those horrible four words. Together. Like I said, a painful and horrible idea. But I was willing to sacrifice my image as a badass who didn't need anyone if it meant getting the job done. At least I was a proper turian in _that _respect. "I need your help," I repeated. "I have a client whose kid is missing. She wants her back by tomorrow evening."

Chellick and I always had our issues. He liked to 'play the long game.' Another reason why he was so good at stings and undercover ops. Me, I like taking the bad guys down. Hard. But I'll give him this much: when a kid was at stake, he always put his issues aside, closed his mandibles and listened. So I gave him the sitrep.

"Jassara Bevos?" he asked. "You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Spirits," Chellick groaned, dropping his head in his talons. "You didn't hear this from me, Garrus, but it would've been better if Zephi _stayed _missing. At least she'd be happier."

"What?"

"This isn't the first time Ms. Bevos issued a missing persons report. She's done it... thirty-eight times, that I can recall. They all play out the same way."

Uh oh. "Go on," I said warily.

"She always sneaks in just as we're about to close. Insists that we find her as soon as possible before 'her ungrateful brat' does something to ruin her good name. Demands that we do it quietly so her reputation stays intact.

"And when we find Zephi and return her? Bevos goes back to her usual schedule of business meetings, lunches, placing vid-calls to clients, work dinners. Everything except spending time with her daughter. Oh, she puts Zephi in all the best schools, makes sure she's enrolled in plenty of after-school programs and has lots of tutors to educate her and monitor her whereabouts. But spend time with her? Nah, too much work for the high-and-mighty _Jassara Bevos_!"

Chellick positively spat out that last part. He was taking this really hard. I know he had a soft spot for kids, but the level of detail was more thorough—and personal—than I'd expected. "I take it you've made sure you were up to speed on her file?" I asked carefully.

"Yes. And kept tabs on her activities through some of the C-Sec probies."

"Really?"

"It's just practising surveillance techniques in the field."

"Uh huh. Next you'll tell me you used your network of informants as well."

"Well..."

"Chellick!" I gasped in mock surprise. "_You_?"

"The Citadel is no place for a kid on her own!" Chellick protested. "You know that."

"Yeah, but... isn't this... C-Sec regulations don't permit this sort of thing."

Chellick shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. "Um... well..."

I couldn't keep from letting out a chuckle. "Chellick, Chellick, Chellick. If I knew this about you, we could've been friends."

"Spirits save me," he shuddered.

Just for fun, I let him squirm for a minute. Gotta enjoy the little things while they last. "Well, it's nice to know that Ms. Bevos really is a piece of work," I finally gave in. Do you have any ideas on where she might be?"

"Not really," Chellick sighed. "Usually we get her dad—"

"Wait!" I interrupted, leaning forward. "What did you say?"

"Her dad."

"Bevos said that Zephi's father was _dead_."

"She only wishes he was dead," Chellick corrected. "Mostly because he's a lowly dock worker."

"Class differences," I nodded knowingly. "Oh, the shame."

"Not to mention the scandal that comes from a one-night stand," Chellick added.

Ooh. The plot thickens...

"After the first few times, we developed an unofficial protocol. When Zephi goes missing, we contact Mr. Vietor. He has her comm codes, and vice versa. Unfortunately, Ms. Bevos blocks 'unauthorized comm channels' from penetrating her apartment, so they can never reach each other. Once Zephi's out of the apartment, though... well, that's another story. Anyway, we contact her dad. He contacts her. They meet, spend some time together and then we arrange for Zephi to be returned to her mother. It's the only time she gets to spend with her father."

"Why don't they visit more often?" I wanted to know. "Don't custody rights permit a certain amount of visitation?"

"Ms. Bevos won a very one-sided custody in the divorce proceedings. Zephi's father has no access privileges whatsoever."

"How did that happen?"

"Money. And lawyers."

I knew it. Damn scum. Almost as bad as criminals—no, _worse _than criminals. At least you can shoot criminals.

"So Zephi's dad is a dock worker, you said," I prompted, just to get the conversation back on track. "Mr... Vietor, you said?"

"Marc Vietor," Chellick nodded. "Though calling him a dock worker might be underselling it. He's basically the boss of his shift. First to clock in, last to clock out. Good work ethic. Little prickly, mind you. But once he gets that stick out of his ass, he's decent enough. For a human."

"Hey!" I protested.

"You're right, you're right," Chellick apologized. "That wasn't fair. Spirits know, they're not all like Harkin. Which reminds me: you recently spent time with Commander Shepard, didn't you? First human Spectre? I always wanted to know what he—Garrus?"

I looked up blankly. "Huh?"

"What happened?" Spirits, he actually looked serious.

"That look on your face. I only see it when I have to give a family some bad news. What happened?"

"He's... he's dead."

"Commander Shepard?"

"Yeah," I nodded slowly.

"Tell me what happened," Chellick encouraged, leaning forward.

"It... it all happened so fast," I began. "We'd been patrolling the Terminus Systems, looking for geth activity. Then we got hit. Again and again. Before I knew it, everything was on fire. Smoke was everywhere. We had to abandon ship.

"I watched the Normandy from one of the escape pods. She was practically carved open from bow to stern, practically bleeding for all the atmosphere and plasma she was venting. Then these bright beams of light struck her and... she... blew up.

"We got picked up eventually. Some passing ship or... something. I don't remember. It's all a blur. All I know is that eventually we got together. Did a head count. With every group that came in, I felt this sinking feeling in my gizzard. All the people I'd fought with—Tali, Kaidan, even that bounty hunter Wrex—they'd all made it. But Shepard was still...

"Then Joker came in. He gave the bad news. How Shepard had gone up to haul his crippled ass to the escape pod, how he got him inside, but an explosion had separated them before he could get in himself. Next thing he knew, there was this bright... laser beam, or something, right between them. No way Shepard could get in without vaporizing himself. So he closed the hatch and ejected the pod. That was the last time Joker—sorry, that's the pilot's nickname—that's the last time he saw him."

"And that's when you knew," Chellick guessed.

"That's when I knew," I said.

...

...

"Humans—some of them, anyway—have this custom," Chellick said at last. "They like to talk about the positive attributes of those who've died. Remember the good times that they shared, rather than focus solely on their passing. Tell me about Shepard. He seemed honourable enough, the way he got Jenna out without blowing my investigation straight to hell."

"You know, the way he took care of that was the same way he took care of every mission," I sighed. "He had this way of knowing when people had a problem and listening to them. And people just opened up. Like everyone had just passed them by and he was the first one to stop and ask what was wrong. Or even how they were doing.

"Did the same thing with the crew of the Normandy, too. Didn't matter what rank or species you were. He'd stop and ask you how you were doing. How your day was. What was on your mind. And he wasn't doing it to be polite or just because it was expected. He did it because he honestly wanted to know. Very punctual, too, the way he dropped by every shift of every day. Almost... almost turian of him. Except for the part where he'd enter a room, pause, make a circuit of the room, pause again, then leave without saying a word. Sometimes he did that. No one knew why.

"Thankfully, there was nothing weird about how he handled combat situations. Amazing tactical instincts. He had this knack for sizing up the situation and figuring out how to get through it. I'll never forget our first mission. It was on Therum. Really hot. Nothing but rocks, dirt and lava as far as the eye could see. Especially the lava—I lost track of the number of times I thought we were goners because Shepard almost drove us into the lava. The man is—was—a menace behind the wheel. Did you know his last idea for dealing with geth armatures was to stomp on the accelerator and _ram them_?!"

"You're kidding," Chellick scoffed.

"No. That's how he took them out. Rammed into one, parked himself on top of it, then shot the hell out of the other one. Then we took out the other. Did the same thing with the next two. My back can attest to that," I finished ruefully, absently reaching behind me to rub that phantom pain. "Thank the spirits Shepard didn't try to loot _that_."

"What?"

"Oh. Right. Strange habit of Shepard's: he had this bad habit of trying to find extra goodies. Spare credits, weapon mods, actual weapons, biotic amps. You name it, he'd find it. In crates. In safes. On dead bodies—"

"He looted the dead," Chellick frowned.

"It's not like they have any use for it," I pointed out.

"Surely it's not official Alliance practise to do that," Chellick said.

"Probably not. It isn't official Hierarchy practise either. Look how well that turned out," I said dryly.

"Point taken," Chellick conceded. "My best assault rifle came from my dad, and _he _got it off a krogan he killed during the Rebellions."

"Though I wish he'd wait until the fighting stopped _before _he started scrounging," I sighed.

"Unbelievable."

"I know," I groaned. "He learned his lesson."

"I should hope so."

"Eventually."

"Oh my."

"Tell me about it."

"So go back to the geth. Did he really take out four armatures by running them over?"

"Well, no."

"I knew it. I knew you were exagger—"

"Some of them were Colossi-class."

"Spirits."

"Anyway, back to Therum. I had never faced geth before. No wonder since they haven't emerged from the Perseus Veil in three hundred years. Shepard had only met them once or twice himself and that was a few weeks before I met him on the Citadel. But he'd learned from those encounters and applied those lessons almost immediately. Figured out the best way to take them out, one by one. How to prioritize targets, how to adapt when enemy reinforcements arrived. How to identify our strengths and make the best use of them, especially when covering each other's weaknesses. Made sure that none of us were lost."

"But then came Virmire. Saren's base of operations. He had a cloning facility there to create more krogan. Legions of them. And a lab to study Reaper indoctrination."

"Reaper," Chellick repeated. "Isn't that—?"

"They're real," I said sharply. "I saw one. Sovereign—the thing Saren was on—wasn't just some dreadnought. It's an actual Reaper."

"Okay, okay," Chellick said placatingly. "Go on. Saren's base on Virmire."

"Right. We had to blow it up. Fought through all the geth reinforcements and some krogan clones. Set up an improvised nuke to take it out. But then more geth arrived. We couldn't stop them all and get away. So... Ashley, one of the Alliance soldiers... she armed the nuke. Gave her life to buy us time to get away."

"That's Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams, isn't it?" Chellick asked. "I heard her name on the news vids. Word is that the Hierarchy is going to give her a medal posthumously. Maybe even the Nova Cluster."

"It's the least she deserves," I said gravely. "There are a lot more humans who deserve them too."

"Yes, I know," Chellick nodded. "Three Alliance fleets distracting the geth to give the Destiny Ascension—and the Citadel Council—time to escape. They paid a heavy price for that. We don't have access to Alliance numbers, of course, but Hierarchy estimates suggest that over a third of their ships were destroyed. That decision was based on Shepard's order, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," I confirmed. "It was."

"Such sacrifice for the greater good," Chellick marvelled, shaking his head. "Very turian of him, indeed. You're lucky to have known him."

"Yeah," I said bitterly. "Emphasis on 'known'."

Chellick looked at me, then opened in his drawer. He rummaged through it for a moment before pulling out a dark bottle and two small glasses. "I didn't know you drank," I said, raising an eyebrow. "You always stayed away from the alcohol during the parties."

"I never drank until I did my compulsory term in the military," Chellick explained, pouring a talon's worth of turian brandy in each glass. "Every time I drank, it was because we had just lost a soldier. After that, well, I never could touch the stuff for any other reason."

He gave one of the glasses to me, then picked one up himself. "Remember the dead," he declared.

"May their spirits watch over the living," I finished the old turian saying. We swallowed the brandy in one gulp. I coughed. "Good brandy," I managed at last.

"The best," Chellick agreed. He turned to his computer, entered a few commands, then glanced at his chronometer. "Mr. Vietor is stationed at Docking Bay D24 today. If you hurry, you can catch the next train to the central ring."

"I'll do that," I agreed, getting to my feet.

Chellick reached over the desk and handed me an OSD. "Biometric profiles for Vietor and Zephi," he explained.

I slotted the OSD into my omni-tool. A beep told me the data had been successfully uploaded. "Thanks, Chellick."

"Thank me by keeping the gunfire, body count and property damage to a minimum."

"No promises," I grinned.

"I know," Chellick groaned. "Spirits help me, I know."


	3. Following the Trail

**Chapter 3: Following the Trail **

My next stop, courtesy of Chellick's information, was Dock D24. That was located on the central ring. A lot of locations can be found there. This causes a lot of confusion for newcomers and tourists—and a lot of headaches for everyone else.

The central ring houses the Presidium: the immense, tranquil, park-like complex where the various offices and departments of the Citadel Council, the embassies of every member and associate member of the Citadel Council, the more expensive and luxurious shops and restaurants and the disgustingly wealthy elite are located. And the Citadel Tower, where the Council meets and deliberates with all its infinite wisdom, of course.

In addition, the central ring also contains all of the Citadel's spaceports, docks and cargo bays. All incoming and outgoing traffic goes through there.

So yes, the Presidium is in the central ring. Yes, the spaceports are in the central ring. Yes, the docks and cargo bays are in the central ring. _But they occupy different parts of the central ring._

Seems simple enough. But I've lost track of the times I had to explain that no, the embassy for so-and-so is not located outside Docking Bay such-and-such. No, the docking bay is not next to the Krogan Monument. No, the Citadel Council does not convene in the cargo bay.

And then I have to endure the inevitable question: "Aren't they both on the central ring?"

"Well, yes," I would say.

"There! You see?"

Makes you want to rip your head crest off.

I slowed to a halt as soon as I entered Bay D24—where Chellick said Vietor was working today—and looked around. No human in the immediate area matching his description. So I'd have to start questioning the dock workers and hope they could point me in the right direction. I arbitrarily picked one—a salarian—and approached him. "Excuse me?" I called out.

The salarian turned around. "Yes?"

"I'm hoping you can help me," I began. "I'm looking for Marc Vietor."

"Why?" the salarian asked, his eyes narrowing. "Who wants to know?"

Suspicious and evasive right from the start. Interesting. "Uh…"

"Come one," the salarian said, glaring at me. "Who put you up to this? Who's trying to shut us down? Because we've got rights, you know."

Where the heck was this coming from? "Right. I know. Of course you—"

"Do you know how long it's been since the Citadel Dockworkers' Union got a decent contract? Every year for the last decade, we've been getting practically nothing. Yeah. That's right. For a quarter of my life, I've watched every union get better contracts _except _ours. Vacation days reduced. Benefits reduced—or replaced with ridiculous crap. I mean, who in their right mind thinks swapping 500 credits of health insurance for contraception benefits is a good idea?"

"Beats me," I murmured.

"And you know what the worst part is? Our so-called representatives at the bargaining table get big fat paychecks. 'Negotiation bonuses.' What a joke!" the salarian spat bitterly.

"I'm sorry."

"For once, those lazy asses did their job. They actually got us a decent contract. All we have to do is ratify it with a vote. Which we're going to do. We won't be denied just because someone bought off C-Sec to stand in our way!"

C-Sec? What was he—oh, right. My hardsuit. "I'm not actually with C-Sec. Well, I was, but not anymore."

"Really? Is that some—"

"My name is Garrus Vakarian," I interrupted, before he could get carried away again.

"Garrus… you're Garrus Vakarian. Oh hell."

Apparently, my reputation preceded me. Thankfully, I wasn't the sort of person who'd let that go to his head. "Yes, I am," I nodded. "And you've heard of me."

The salarian nodded numbly, silent for the first time. I decided to strike while the iron was hot, as the humans say. "I'm not here to bother Mr. Vietor with unions or contracts or anything," I interrupted. "I need to talk to him about his daughter."

"Zephi?" the salarian said.

"Yes," I replied. "Zephi. So you have a choice. You could help me help Mr. Vietor—and Zephi. Or you could stand in my way, piss me off and be partly responsible for all the inevitable chaos and damage."

I let him process all that information: the realization that I wasn't interested in getting involved with any labour concerns, the fact that I only came here about a fellow union worker's daughter, and the knowledge that any further hostility could and would cause a lot of unwanted and unnecessary grief. Didn't take a genius to figure out the best course of action. "Come this way, please," the suddenly cooperative salarian invited.

As I followed him towards Dock D24, I mused over how this misunderstanding started in the first place. Wouldn't have happened if I still had my Colossus armour. Mark X. Turian variant. Beautiful, glossy black coupled with crimson red armour plates and highlights. Shields and tech/biotic countermeasure package weren't _quite _as good as the Predator M series, but it looked better. Besides, Shepard had bought or scrounged a set of Colossus armour for every member of the squad. We had to stay colour-coordinated, right?

That was in the past. Now… Shepard was… he… he was dead. We'd all gone our separate ways. And I sold my Colossus hardsuit. Along with the Mark X Master line of Spectre gear weaponry. Earned me a lot of credits. More than enough to get to Omega. But… the Citadel desperately needed money to rebuild the Wards. The Presidium was fine—enough politicians and CEOs to repair it. But the Wards? Where all the little people lived? They needed help. I needed the money from my C-Sec severance package for basic necessities. The rest of my credits I had available had already gone to my mother. But I still had the best hardsuit and weapons money could buy. Turned out they could fetch a decent price even at resale.

Besides, it wasn't as if I had nothing. What kind of turian would I be if I _didn't _have a backup set? True, they were some crap weapons from Elkoss Combine, but at least I could still shoot somebody. And my hardsuit? It was the rig I'd gotten when I first joined C-Sec. No wonder the salarian dock worker was confused.

I followed the salarian through the docks. It was pretty much what you'd expect. Brighter than the Wards, but darker than the Presidium. Lots of crates and barrels everywhere, most of them stacked up in piles. It was busy, with lots of people moving around. Passengers embarking and disembarking. Dock workers checking crates to make sure they had the right info on their digital displays, sorting through manifests on their omni-tools or datapads and moving crates to the appropriate locations. The odd security guard or two, stationed at regular intervals, keeping a careful eye on their designated sector.

It took a few minutes, but the salarian eventually found Mr. Vietor. He might have been a little shorter than the average human, but not by much. In reasonably good shape, I saw, with the kind of physique that comes with honest, regular work as opposed to strength-enhancing drugs or grey-market genetic mods. His hair was mostly white, with a few brown hairs sprinkled in. As he turned around, he gave me a smile. A warm, genuine one, that caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle. "Hello there," he greeted me. "Can I help you?"

I found myself liking him right away. He seemed like a good human. The fact that I was coming to him with potentially troubling news meant he probably was a good human. That's the way the spirits seemed to arrange my luck these days. "My name is Garrus Vakarian," I introduced myself. "I used to be with C-Sec. That's why I occasionally get jobs like this."

"Job?" Mr. Vietor asked. "What sort of job exactly?"

And here came the awkward part. "I'm here about your daughter, Mr. Vietor. It seems she's... run away."

"'Run away'?" Mr. Vietor frowned, smiles all gone. "Oh no. Not again."

He immediately activated his omni-tool and pressed a few keys. "How long has she been missing?" he asked.

"Almost five hours ago," I replied. "Your… ex-wife contacted me, requesting that I find her."

Vietor was quick, I'll give him that. "You? Personally? Not going through C-Sec?"

"It seems she wanted a more unofficial approach this time," I said, "with all the discretion that goes with it. Why don't you tell me about Zephi?"

"Not much I can tell," he said sadly, after checking his omni-tool. "I rarely get to see her. Her mother has full custody. Only time I get to see her is when she... well... when she does something like this. God, when I think of everything I've missed. Her birthdays. All those Christmases. Every single thing in her life." He checked his omni-tool again. Nothing, I gathered.

"Do you have any idea where she might have gone?"

"Anywhere that she shouldn't," he sighed. "She's a kid. I know that's strange to say. She's almost forty for crying out loud. At her age, I was holding a steady job and... well... trying to save up enough credits for another attempt at shared custody. But for asari? She's barely in her teens. They think they're invincible. Nothing bad will ever happen to them, you know what I'm saying? And God forbid that she listens to her elders or her parents. They're not cool or hip or schway or whatever they call it these days."

He checked his omni-tool for the fourth time. "Waiting for something?" I guessed.

"I sent a message to Zephi as soon as you told me she was missing," Vietor explained.

"You only sent that message two minutes ago," I pointed out. "Expecting a reply—"

Vietor was shaking his head before I finished my first sentence. "No, you don't get it," he interrupted. "Zephi always sends something back. _Always_. Even if it's just an acknowledgement that she received my message and would contact me later. The longest she's gone without sending _something _back is one minute, seven seconds."

It figured that he'd have that particular fact memorized. "Well in the meantime, can you think of any places she might have gone? Or friends she might stay with?"

"Don't know about staying with friends," Vietor sighed. "She tends to make 'friends' with people who don't stay around very long. Tourists, military brats whose parents are on temporary duty assignments, that kind of thing. I used to think she had lousy luck, but now I think she seeks them out deliberately so she doesn't get hurt as badly when they leave."

Sadly, I could see the logic behind that. Zephi only got to see her father when she ran away. If the one positive thing in her life that she could turn to or talk to was that transient and sporadic, and all the other negative and horrible parts of her life were so constant and permanent, was it really worth going to all the trouble and emotional investment to seek out friends or other people, only to have them let you down?

"Now as for places she liked to frequent… mostly clubs, from what she told me. Let me see if I can remember their names…"

Vietor's memory was pretty good, for which I was grateful. There are a _lot _of clubs on the Citadel. If I had to visit each and every one, there was no way I could meet Bevos's deadline. But Zephi seemed to favour half a dozen establishments. And they were all located in the same Ward, so I could stay within the same arm of the Citadel. Maybe the spirits were finally smiling down on me—

"So where do we start first?"

"Excuse me?"

"To find Zephi," Vietor said. "Do we visit each club in alphabetical order or something?"

Well… crap. While I had to respect him for his concern and dedication to his daughter, this was the last thing I needed. If things got… problematic, he'd be more likely to get us killed. "Mr. Vietor," I said cautiously, "I've done this sort of thing before. The best way for you to help your daughter is to give me as much information as you can. Now that you've done that, it's my job to use that information to find Zephi."

"But—"

"If you want to help me, do so by continuing the rest of your shift and keeping an eye on your omni-tool in case Zephi contacts you. If she does, contact me immediately. I'll find her and bring her to you."

"You're sure an extra set of eyes can't hurt?"

"I'm sure," I nodded.

"And you'll bring her right to me?" Vietor pressed.

"Absolutely," I promised.

"Well… okay, then. If you're sure."

That went well. So why was I uneasy?

* * *

I entered the PTS and found out, much to my surprise and delight, that there was a train just pulling in. Breaking into a jog, I weaved in and out of the traffic with an ease that only comes with lots and lots of practise. I slipped into the nearest train car and found a place to sit down.

Unfortunately, most of the clubs and establishments Vietor had mentioned wouldn't be open for several hours. Fortunately, there were a few things I could do to pass my time. Time to get to work. The first was to send a message to Chellick, updating him on the situation and requesting any surveillance feeds around the clubs Vietor had mentioned. The chances of C-Sec releasing those vids to a civilian were slim-to-none. The chances of C-Sec releasing them to an ex-cop with a… less-than-sterling reputation were even worse. But if anyone could find a way to get those vids to me, or even review them and send a quick sitrep, Chellick could.

Next, I needed to get in touch with any staff that might have been working when Zephi waltzed in. Bartenders, waiters, managers and so on. Activating my omni-tool, I pulled up a file containing the staff directory for every business I might have walked by or investigated during my C-Sec days. The file was out of date, but there were some contacts that were still current. I left a message with each and every one, asking them to call me back as soon as possible.

Finally, I pulled up a map to identify all the places Zephi might have gone after a long night of clubbing. Mostly restaurants and kiosks with food—greasy or otherwise—to soak up all that booze, that sort of thing. There were a lot of possible hits to visit. Especially for one lone turian, all on his own, fighting the good fight in an uncaring galaxy.

Good thing I had nothing better to do.

Looking up, I realized that we were reaching my stop. Guess all that omni-tool work took longer than I thought. I waited until the train came to a complete stop before getting up—the deceleration tends to be a little abrupt—and exiting the train.

As luck would have it, the first food kiosk on my list was just outside the Public Transit Station terminal. "Good morning," the friendly food service attendant said brightly. "What would you like—oh hell, it's you."

"Hi Nhazam," I said cheerfully. "How are you doing?"

Nhazam the formerly-friendly food service attendant glared at me. "I was doing just fine until you showed up. Do you have any idea how much business you cost me the last time we met?"

"As I recall, we met because you had accused a customer of siphoning credits from your account."

"You arrested me!"

"We took you into custody because you assaulted said customer in the midst of our questioning."

"You cost me a lot of business!"

Sometimes, there is just no reasoning with people. Maybe that could've changed if I had the time—and the patience—to humour my good 'friend'. But I didn't. Time for Plan B. I pulled up Zephi's picture. "I'm looking for this asari," I said, tilting my head towards the holo hovering over my omni-tool."

"Why? You screw her over too?"

"She's a kid who's gone missing," I said patiently. "I'm trying to find her before you get hurt. Have you seen her within the last couple hours?"

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. What do you have to say to that?"

"I say that you could be taken into custody again for obstruction of justice," I smiled.

…

A bit of a gamble, there. If Nhazam called my bluff, I could be in a great deal of trouble. Then again, this was the same Nhazam who thought that she needed more staff because five customers per hour—at a kiosk that sold pre-packaged food—was too much for one person to handle alone. The same Nhazam who always complained that the Citadel was a poor place to work because they didn't offer Vis to help small businesses like hers—when there was a shop specializing in VIs right next door. If things hadn't changed in the last year or so, she would rather give me grief than actually do any extra work to probe the validity of my story.

"No, I haven't seen her. I haven't seen any asari since I opened up for business today."

"Thank you for your time," I smiled. "Have a pleasant day."

I turned away, thoroughly annoyed and frustrated in spite of myself. I had to remind myself that not everyone was as charming as Nhazam. And yet my mandibles _still_ wound up complaining from all the grinding and clenching I was doing.

Thankfully, I was right. Most of the people I questioned next were much more cooperative—well, except for the two or three or twelve people that ran screaming something along the lines of "Oh hell, it's Garrus! Run!" Some were even pleasant. Sadly, none of them had seen Zephi.

Finding a nearby bench, I plopped my ass down with a groan. I'd been on my feet for several hours going from one end of the Ward to the other, I wasn't any closer to finding Zephi and I hadn't gotten into any gunfights that might have relieved my frustration—though the inevitable attention and paperwork that would result from such incidents would undoubtedly provide a fresh source of aggravation. The only thing I had to show for all my work was a pair of very sore feet.

Sadly, this was more the norm than the exception. All those cop vids you see? Where the cast bust into rooms with guns and voices raised, solving crimes in a bullet-ridden hour or less? None of it's real. It's usually a lot of slow, methodical and relentless drudgery. Another reason why I enjoyed my time on the Normandy so much. Travelling from one system to the next, fighting geth and mercs at every other stop, culminating in one insane frenzy of a fight to save the whole damn galaxy was intense, to say the least. But I'd never felt more alive. Going back to this was hard, to say the least. Harder, in fact. I suppose if it was easy, everyone would be doing it.

I checked my chronometer. There was no way that I could make it to the PTS to catch the next train. The one after that wouldn't arrive for another half hour. So I was fully justified in taking a load of my feet for another couple minutes while I gulped down an early lunch.

* * *

The first place I visited was The Laughing Varren. I'd always thought it was poorly named. Partly because I'd never heard a varren laugh, though I'd heard far too many growls for my liking. Partly because the… creature on the sign above the door didn't look remotely like a varren.

It was surprisingly well lit for such a small establishment. Light fixtures and ventilation fixtures dangled from the roof, clearly visible without any attempt to cover them up. The chairs and tables were all made of metal mesh. Cheap, relatively sturdy and easy to clean—just grab a high-pressure hose, spray everything down and let the water run into the drains set at regular intervals in the floor.

The Laughing Varren had just opened, so there weren't too many people. The manager took one look at me and bolted for the back, leaving a disgruntled waitress and a cashier behind to suffer my supposed wrath. Little did he know that I wasn't here to cause any trouble. At least, not intentionally.

"I'm looking for this asari," I said by way of greeting. "Goes by Zephi. Have you seen her? She might've come in last night."

"Nope."

"Sorry, no."

"Are you sure? She's been missing for—" I stopped to check my chronometer. "—over ten hours now. Her parents are getting worried."

That did the trick. "Let me check the security cams," the cashier said.

"I know a couple staff who was working last night," the waitress offered. "Give me a second."

Humans have this strange superstition about attracting luck from the spirits by placing one finger over the other. I tried that out for myself while waiting for the staff to get back to me. They returned within a couple minutes.

"Checked the cams twice. Nothing."

"I tried everyone I could think of. They didn't remember anyone matching her description."

Guess I didn't cross my talons correctly. Or maybe the spirits were showing their usual disregard for my pleas. "Thanks for trying," I said.

I had no luck with the second club. Or the third.

The fourth club was also a bust, though it also reminded me of my past. The waiter dropped his dishes and bolted for the storage room. Along with the other waiter. And the maître d'. And the customers. I 'visited' this club on my last case, you see, before the so-called investigation into Saren. There was a serial killer who had the death sentence in twelve systems. I tracked him into this very establishment. And by track, I mean follow him through the front door, through the club and out the back door. Pistols may have been raised. Shots may have been fired—mostly by the dirtbag. Miraculously, no one got hurt. Not my proudest moment. It wasn't surprising to see that everyone remembered that event with crystal clarity—hence the mass scramble for shelter.

As I left the club, curses and foul language following me out the door, I noticed a figure hastily and clumsily retreat into the shadows. This wasn't the first time either. I'd been plagued by this particular individual for the last hour ever since I left The Laughing Varren, which gave one clue as to his identity. Or her, but I had a feeling it was a he.

Ignoring him for now, I went on my merry and seemingly oblivious way. I passed a hanar evangelist boring passersby with another revelation from the Enkindlers, a pair of asari earnestly discussing the logistics of various pole-dancing techniques and a human complaining to a volus about constantly being stereotyped.

Eventually, I found a quiet and relatively undisturbed alley, its sides lined with stacks of crates and shipping containers. Just what I was looking for. I turned into the alley, took enough steps into the dark to get out of my shadow's view, then hid behind some crates. Straining my ears, I heard footsteps approach... then slow to a stop. No doubt my shadow was peering into the alley, wondering where I had gone off to.

There was a long pause.

Either my shadow was making up his mind or he was trying to wait me out. Good luck if it was the latter: after years of missions where I had to wait for the right moment to take a shot and years of bureaucracy where some clerk took an eternity to file some paperwork, this was nothing.

After a minute, my shadow couldn't take it any longer and entered the alley. He walked towards my hiding spot, passed it and kept on going without bothering to check his surroundings. I, on the other hand, got a good look at him.

And all my suspicions were confirmed. I should have known. "Hello again, Mr. Vietor."

Vietor jumped and whirled around so fast I thought he'd give himself whiplash. His eyes widened as I stepped out into the open. "M-Mr. Vakarian," he stammered. "I didn't see you hiding there."

"That was sort of the point," I said. "Wish I could say the same."

"How long did you know I was—"

"Following me?" I finished. "Since I left The Laughing Varren."

"Really?"

"You stayed behind a trio of human girls giggling over some vid they saw, then hid behind a krogan. You lost me at one of the Avina VI terminals but found me again as I passed the—"

"Okay, okay." Vietor threw up his hands in defeat. "You saw me."

Not really. But I knew where the shadow might have been located and where it definitely was not. A little bit of extrapolation and a couple memories generated a reasonable account of events. I was glad he conceded so quickly, though. My memory got a little hazy after that.

Though not so hazy that I forgot to ask something: "Don't tell me your shift ended early."

"No, well, I kinda took the rest of the day off."

Of course he did.

"I couldn't wait around for you to find Zephi. What if she was in trouble?"

If she was in trouble, I think she'd need more than a union membership with the Citadel Dockworkers' Union. Unless Vietor brought friends. Solidarity...

"Did you come by yourself?"

Vietor looked at me like I'd lost my mind. A lot of people do that. Especially during my investigation of Saren. Because the crowning poster-boy for all things Spectre couldn't possiblybe involved in anything underhanded or questionable. He couldn't possibly be a traitor. He couldn't possibly be working with the geth. Oh. Wait. _He was_.

But that's in the past. I was right. Go me. Back to Zephi. And Vietor, who was about to answer my question. Maybe he brought backup.

"Of course I came by myself."

Or not. Figures.

"I thought you were going to wait in case Zephi called," I reminded him.

"If she calls, it'll go straight to my omni-tool," Vietor said, raising his left arm. "Which goes where I go."

Sometimes I hate technology.

"Look Mr. Vietor," I started, feeling a migraine coming on. Again. "I get that you're worried. I'm glad that you care so much about Zephi. More than her mother, from what I've seen. But you tagging along isn't going to help."

"Uh. Hey there. Sorry to interrupt."

I turned around. So did Vietor. We stared at the entrance to the alley. And up. And up.

And here I thought my day couldn't get any worse. "Hello, Torsk," I sighed.

Urdnot Torsk. Yeah, that's right: same clan as Wrex. Just as big as Wrex. Just as tough as Wrex. Just as familiar with the seedy side of galactic society as Wrex. But before you think I'm stereotyping all krogan as being the same, let me tell you that Torsk is one of the most polite and genial sapients I've ever met. Even when he was pounding my face to a pulp. Or introducing it to random solid objects like fists and crates and containers and walls and floors. Understandably, it was that last part that worried me.

"Guess this is a bad time for me to show up, huh?" Torsk asked.

"You could say that," I said. "What do you want, Torsk?"

He shuffled awkwardly. "Listen, uh, I was just on my way to the spaceport. Got a ticket back to Tuchanka. But then I got a job offer. Client contacted me on my omni-tool."

Vietor and I exchanged looks.

"Quick job, the client said. Turian nosing around clubs asking about missing asari. Tell that guy to back off, the client said. Or else. Told me to rough that turian up, too."

"I'm guessing the client didn't say that turian was me," I said wryly.

"No. Sorry, Garrus. If I'd known, I wouldn't have taken that contract. You were always nice when you were questioning me. Or trying to arrest me. I mean, if it was some schmuck like that Harkin guy, I'd be just fine. Hell, I might have even thrown in a discount."

Nope, the spirits still had it in for me. Worst part was that Torsk sincerely meant every single word.

"Couldn't you just tell your clients you couldn't find me," I suggested. "That you looked up and down the Wards and so on?"

Torsk gave me a look. "I can't do that."

"Not even for credits?" I tried. "I mean, hey, you found me. You told me to back off. Doesn't mean you have to go all the way, right?"

"Hey," Torsk frowned. "Come on, Garrus. You know you can't bribe me to lay off. I wish you weren't the target. Really. But if word got around that I could get bought off, I'd be out of work. I got a reputation to maintain. Standards."

I'd admire that work ethic more if it wasn't my ass on the line.

"Hell, I might become a target myself if I started picking and choosing like that. It's—"

"Please don't say 'It's nothing personal. It's just business'?" I groaned.

"That is kinda clichéd, isn't it?" Torsk nodded sympathetically. "Fine. Let's just get to the part where you try to fight—"

"Try?" I squawked in outrage.

"Fine. Sorry. You fight. I fight back. You get beat up bad. And..." Torsk stopped and looked at Vietor. Who's this guy, anyway?"

"Ex-husband of my client," I replied. "He was _supposed _to wait while I went out to find his daughter, but apparently he got a little impatient."

"Oh. Hi there! Urdnot Torsk. Pleased to meet you."

"Uh... likewise?" Vietor tried. He looked a little hesitant. I couldn't blame him.

"Listen, buddy, why don't you get out of here?" Torsk suggested. "My contract didn't say anything about bystanders."

"Even bystanders who might be witnesses?" Vietor asked.

Torsk snorted. "Maybe you didn't notice, but I have a fairly long rap sheet. Besides, if you run now, then you won't be a witness."

"You should probably take him up on his offer," I said. "Before Torsk changes his mind."

"But what about you?" Vietor protested.

"I'll be fine," I reassured him. "Torsk and I will have it out, but I'll live." I shot him a look. "I will live, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Torsk nodded. "Contract wasn't to kill you."

I felt oh so grateful.

"That costs more."

Now more than ever. "Then he'll go to the spaceport and leave," I said, continuing as if I didn't feel a chill go down my spine. "Preferably without checking his omni-tool for any more contracts."

"Sure thing," Torsk agreed. "I'll just send a message confirming that the job was done before the transport leaves."

"And after that, I'll resume the search for Zephi. _Alone_." I emphasized that last part with a raised eyebrow. "I mean it this time. My job is to find your daughter and bring her to you, no matter how many bruises or broken ribs I pick up along the way. Your job is to make sure you're alive and intact so you can give her the biggest hug you can muster. Got it?"

Vietor still hesitated. My estimation of him rose a couple more notches. Of his character, not his self-preservation.

"Hey buddy, let me make it easier for you," Torsk offered. He pulled out a shotgun and aimed it at Vietor's head. One-handed. "Beat it before I mess up your face."

"Seriously," I hissed. "Take him up on his offer. Scram!"

Vietor nodded nervously. He still hesitated for a second, but then he bolted.

"Nice guy," Torsk said. "Worried about his kid. I like that. Wish I had a kid to worry about."

"I like him too," I agreed. Then a thought hit me—a rare occurrence, I'll grant you, but it does happen from time to time. "Hey, Torsk?"

"You're not trying to bribe me again, are you?"

"No, no," I assured him. "Just curious about something. _Your_ client didn't want me looking for _my_ client's daughter specifically? Or just 'missing asari' in general?"

"Missing asari in general," Torsk replied. "Been a lot of that going around lately."

"Really?" I asked, forgetting my impending doom and humiliation.

"Yeah," Torsk nodded, scratching his head. "For almost a month, come to think of it."

"And no one noticed a pattern?" I burst out angrily.

"I dunno," Torsk shrugged. "Happened at random spots throughout the Citadel so no one noticed, I guess. And even if they did, almost everybody showed up after a couple hours. Maybe a day, tops." All those missing asari cases solved themselves so..."

Which could easily be explained as nothing more than harmless hookups and one-night stands, hence the lack of attention. "But some asari didn't show up," I said.

"One or two, yeah," Torsk nodded. "People are worried. Word on the street is Geirk—you remember Geirk, right?"

I shuddered in spite of myself. "Yeah."

"Word is that Geirk just arrived to find one of those missing asari."

"Huh." I thought about that. "Any idea where he might be?"

"Naw," Torsk shook his head. "Sorry."

"It's okay," I sighed. "I think I know how to find him."

"Good to know."

"Yeah," I nodded. "Hey, uh... you going to lower that shotgun anytime?"

"Huh? Oh. Right." He holstered his shotgun, much to my relief. Otherwise, I'd have to dig out my guns and things would get really ugly. Uglier. And distressingly final. Probably for me. "Okay," Torsk said. "Now you try to fight back—"

"Try?"

"Sorry. Now you fight back. And lose. And get pummelled. And then I'll leave."

"Right," I said in resignation. I suppose I could've fought him. Maybe even try to kill him. But Torsk had given me a lot more information in the last couple minutes than I had gotten in the last couple hours. I guess I felt I owed him something, even if it meant helping him fulfill his contract. Even if fulfilling his contract meant getting beaten to a pulp.

"So... we gonna do this?" Torsk asked.

Of course, that didn't mean I had to make it easy for him. "Yeah," I sighed. I raised my fists slowly...

...then turned and ran like hell.

Torsk caught up with me before I took half a dozen steps.

* * *

They say pain's just a way of reminding you that you're alive. That your muscles and various other body parts are still there and in working order. 'They' are full of crap. I've felt alive plenty of times without feeling like someone laced my bones with micro-explosives and set them all off. When I came to, the pain and aches were so intense that I passed out almost immediately. Oblivion can be really soothing now and then.

Sometime later, I came to again. I tried to get up. Then I decided to enjoy the nice cool floor for a few more seconds—which became several minutes since I lost consciousness. Again.

And the third time... well, humans have this saying about the third time having the charm. Well, maybe it doesn't go exactly like that. Basic gist is that you get lucky or achieve success or something on the third time. And I did. Managed to force myself to a sitting position without blacking out. I was just about to put one foot under myself when—

"_*hiss* _Well look at what we have here! _*hiss*_"

Spirits. Guess that human saying doesn't cross the species barriers. I blearily looked up at a volus.

Oh. Good. It was just a volus. I think I could handle a volus. Though he did look oddly familiar. "Nothing to see here," I said. Or tried to say—I think it came out as a semi-audible mumble. Something along the lines of "Nuthintaseeya."

"_*hiss* _You don't remember me, do you? _*hiss* _That's all right. I remember you. _*hiss* _You intercepted a shipment I needed very badly. _*hiss*_"

Spirits. Now I knew where I'd seen him before. "I remember you," I said, managing to enunciate my words a little clearer. "Kwunla Vor. You owned a struggling pharmacy in the Lower Wards. As I recall, your shipment contained enough substances to make half a dozen illegal drug compounds... or a crude chemical weapon or two."

"_*hiss* _All very profitable, I assure you. Because of your interference, though, I couldn't pay my loan. _*hiss* _So my... creditors took my shop as collateral. But there was one bright side. _*hiss* _After I lost everything, I realized that I had to start over. _*hiss* _To rebuild myself. I started with what I'm good at—finances. Transactions. Loans. _*hiss*_"

"You became a debt collector?" I asked. "Your idea of starting over was to become just like the guy who took your business?"

"_*hiss* _No. My idea was to take the business of the guy who took my business."

Ooookaaaay.

"_*hiss* _I'm now bigger and badder than I ever was."

Really? 'Bigger and badder?' Do people actually say that?

"_*hiss* _So when I saw you in the alley, I had the resources to get my revenge."

"What, you couldn't do it yourself?"

"_*hiss* _Why would I do that?" Kwunla asked. "_*hiss* _Anyone could beat you to a pulp, rip your balls off and choke you to death with them. But some people are powerful enough to have other people do it for them."

Normally this would be the part where I'd say something witty and cutting, but I was too busy trying to keep my food in my gizzard. Damn, Torsk did a good job.

"_*hiss* _Boys?"

Crap. I looked around. Two humans and a turian were walking towards me. Normally I could take them. Normally I wasn't stiff from being used as a living punching bag. I reached for my pistol. Unfortunately, my stiff muscles slowed me down. All three thugs had their guns pointed at my face before I got even close.

I had to stall for time. "Oh, geez," I said. "Not the face. Whatever you do, please don't ruin my face. It's too pretty to get shot."

"Shut up," one of the humans sneered.

"Why? Don't you enjoy the melodious sounds of my voice?"

"No!" the thugs snapped back in unison.

"That hurts," I sighed. "That really hurts."

"_*hiss* _Boys?" Kwunla said. "Why don't you get started?"

That was when the pin dropped.

Well, actually it wasn't a pin. It was a tech mine. One that had been expertly timed to go off at just the right point to fry everyone's shields and disable everyone's weapons... except mine. Even with my bruised and battered body, I had more than enough time to pull out my sniper rifle. And at this close a range, I'd have to be completely wasted to miss.

I targeted the first human who opened his big fat mouth. The bullet had so much velocity, it went straight through his head and out the other side. Since I was still sitting on the ground, that meant the bullet went up, up and away… until it embedded itself into the ceiling. As for my target, he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been slashed. The other human joined him a second later, courtesy of a shotgun blast to the back. As for the turian, he bolted down the alley before my mysterious rescuer—or I—could stop him.

That left Kwunla. "_*hiss* _That didn't go so well."

"No," my rescuer said. "It didn't."

She stepped into the alley. She was wearing a hardsuit composed of grey and dark purple—almost black—plates that completely covering her body. Even her face was hidden behind a helmet. She held a shotgun in her hands, with a confidence that only came from hard-earned experience. There was a certain simple and effortless grace about her, made more impressive by how functional and practical her hardsuit looked—the fact that it showed off her hips to perfection was just a happy bit of serendipity. In fact, the only concession to fashion was the cloth headdress of lavender whorls covering her helmet.

"Hey," I managed. "You look like Tali."

"I am Tali, you bosh'tet. Why were those people trying to kill you?"

"Uh..." I had to think about that. Only one thing came to mind.

"It was a slow night and everyone else was busy?"


	4. Help Wanted Sanity Optional

**Chapter 4: Help Wanted. Sanity Optional. **

Talk about perfect timing.

My sorry existence almost came to a tragic end because some ne'er-do-well tried to take advantage of my battered state. They might've stabbed me in the back. Or front. Or filled my body with bullets. Or something else that was similarly permanent and fatal. If it wasn't for Tali and her unexpected rescue, the C-Sec morgue would have one more body to deal with while the bureaucrats figure out the cheapest way to send me back to Palaven.

And let's not forget the most important part: a young girl was still missing and might've stayed missing were it not for Tali.

Speaking of Tali, she seemed to be saying something? "Uh, sorry. What did you say?"

"Do you need any help standing up? Or some medi-gel?"

"Uh. One moment." I tried to get up. Next thing I knew, my head was hitting the pavement and my foot was dangling in the air.

"Garrus!"

"The answer to your question—both of them—would be yes."

"Bosh'tet."

Once I got to my feet—with a lot of help from Tali—I waited for the pounding in my head to pass. Then I remembered to take some medi-gel. Then a little more. Then a little more. Eventually, the painkillers in the medi-gel started to kick in. Once the throbbing started to subside, I began revising my list. It now had a new Step Seven: find some goddamn backup. It sounded like this missing persons case was a bit bigger than I'd originally realized. And judging by the muscle involved, it was also a bit more dangerous. The next bad guy who crossed my path might not be as genial or accommodating as Torsk. Which meant I might have to swallow what was left of my pride and find some backup.

Only problem was that I didn't have a lot of backup to call upon. All I had was Tali and… well… no. That was it. Just Tali. C-Sec wouldn't be any help—by the time they finished processing my report, Zephi could be in serious danger. I tried contacting Chellick anyway, along with any other sympathetic officers I could think of, but all of my calls went straight to voice mail or inbox or whatever. And I couldn't wait for them to call back.

If I hadn't been too busy greeting the floor like an old friend, I might've asked Torsk. But I probably couldn't afford his rates, anyway.

Wrex was gone. Kaidan was gone. Liara was gone. Shepard was... well... gone.

It could be worse, I suppose. Having Tali backing me up was the first good thing that had happened in a long, _long _time. At least she was reliable. Loyal. Didn't panic under pressure. Knew how to use her weapons. And she could probably build a dreadnought-class mass accelerator cannon out of a handful of scraps.

But what was she doing here?

"Aside from saving your life? I missed my shuttle and the next one isn't until tomorrow."

I looked at her.

"Yes, you did ask that question out loud," Tali confirmed.

And I didn't even know it. Maybe Torsk had hit me harder than I realized. "Oh. Well. Um. Glad you could make it."

"Me too," Tali said. "Against my better judgement. So what's been going on here?"

Right. Time for the sitrep. I told Tali about my latest case and how it hadn't exactly gone according to plan. Unless your definition of 'plan' involves getting suckered into a case that you had to get solved in a ridiculously short period of time because you were too hung over to read the fine print, going to your former place of employment and swallowing your pride before asking for help, narrowly avoiding a drawn-out labour dispute, chasing down one fruitless lead after another, getting a lot of grief from the people you were trying to question, finally getting some real answers, getting beaten to a pulp by an oversized krogan and almost getting whacked by a resentful volus. If so, then it went exactly according to plan.

"Right," Tali nodded, taking it all in stride. Then again, after getting shot during her Pilgrimage, being rescued by an alien and joining his crew and fighting the good fight while uncovering an ancient galactic mystery with cataclysmic repercussions, my exploits were just a walk in the park. "So what's our next move?"

"We're going to a really bad club in a really bad part of the Citadel to find a certain crazy psycho nutjob," I replied. "Then we'll stumble into another situation that will probably get us killed. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"There's something very wrong with you."

* * *

Whenever Geirk arrives on the Citadel, he does three things. The first is to freak out every criminal scum and bottom-dweller with the thought of what unspeakable horrors he might inflict next and what poor soul might be his target. The second is to give every C-Sec officer headaches over what unspeakable horrors he might inflict next and how much paperwork it might cause. The third is to go to Khar'shan's Edge.

It wasn't always called that. Originally, it was called the Fox and Hawk. Then it became Rex's Bar. Then it experienced thirty changes of ownership and forty-two name changes over the space of a year.

Sometime last year, the latest owner decided that what the establishment needed was a bit of expansion. More elbow room, more stools, greater capacity to store drinks and so on. He couldn't expand to the left or the right because there were already businesses there. He couldn't expand the front because there was only a couple metres of room—from the alley—before he hit the wall on the other side.

So the owner did the only thing he could do short of adding a second floor or a basement—he expanded the back. Which meant doubling the effective space into empty space. If that part somehow collapsed—which was entirely possible considering he never bothered to install support columns—every table, chair, customer and staff member would plummet through the Ward, out of the Citadel and into the cold vacuum of space. Naturally, that made it even more attractive.

You get to Khar'shan's Edge, place of cheap drinks, lousy service and overall magnet for trouble, by walking into the areas of the Wards that aren't on any official maps. There are no directions, flyers or advertisements. You either know about it—through word of mouth or personal experience—or you don't. It had been a while since I'd been stupid enough to go to Khar'shan's Edge, but I still remembered the way. Certain scuffs, burn marks and gouges in the pavement served as damn effective landmarks.

Tali looked at the sign. A plain sheet of metal with the name carved in by a plasma cutter. Below it was a series of lines in different languages. "What does that say?" she asked.

Leaning over, I pointed at the line at the top. "That says 'Enter at your own risk.' I'm guessing the other lines say the same."

"I love it already," Tali sighed.

"Thought you might."

"Tell me about this place."

"You only go here when you're down on your luck, desperate, crazy or all of the above," I told her. "It's the kind of place where everyone can talk or have a drink. Rich politicians whose closets are bursting with skeletons. Criminals with nothing left to lose. Asari, salarians, turians, humans, elcor, hanar, batarians, krogan, quarians, vorcha. Very open-minded and cosmopolitan, in a dirty seedy sort of way."

"You take me to the nicest places, Garrus," Tali said, shaking her head.

"Only because I care," I replied.

"So why are we here?"

"No one bothers you if you want to be left alone or asks about religion or politics if that's out of bounds. Neutrality is strictly enforced, by brute force or gunpoint if needed. Which means it's the perfect place to go when you're down on your luck and out of options. Anyone can ask questions, get answers or broker deals that would never be possible in public."

"And we're here to get an answer?" Tali guessed.

"That's right," I replied. "Specifically, I need to learn the whereabouts of an occasionally homicidal, possibly crazy mercenary named Geirk," I replied.

"Wonderful."

There's a series of flood lights set up just inside, aimed towards the door to blind anyone who walks in. That way, none of the customers can be taken by surprise. I paused after entering and waited for my eyes to adjust. Which meant I definitely noticed when the place went suddenly and ominously silent.

While I waited for the stars and haze to clear out of my eyes, I looked around. Nothing much had changed. Still the same mismatch of chairs, stools and tables that wouldn't be placed together by anyone with an ounce of taste in interior decorating. A series of booths lined the back wall for anyone wanting extra privacy, a place to dump a body or a deep-seeded need to be alone. The lights were kept low for a number of reasons. For atmosphere. So you couldn't see what a dump this place was. So you couldn't see what you were eating or drinking. So you couldn't get a good look at the kind of people around you. Because the owner was too cheap to buy a proper set of light bulbs.

Speaking of the owner, he was the only one who had control over the musical selection. I could tell he had spotted me, because that's when the 'music' started playing. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a blur of movement that vaguely resembled Tali clapping her hands over the sides of her helmet, before hastily tapping away at her omni-tool. No doubt she was adjusting the sensory feeds on the auditory transmitters in her helmet. One of the benefits of being sealed away from the germ-filled outside world. I wished I could do that too.

"What is that… noise?" Tali managed at last.

"Batarian death metal," I replied. "Beloved by all batarian free-thinkers, purveyors of poor taste and teenagers—not to mention outsiders looking for the next new thing. Loathed by the batarian Department of Information Control, the batarian military, every official facet of the Hegemony and anyone who can actually carry a tune."

"So does that mean you're listening to it right now?"

"Very funny."

As my vision adjusted, I noted all the widened eyes, hostile glares and looks that could possibly kill. Something to be said for having an infamous reputation. Almost made up for all the aches and pains throbbing and pounding from head to toe. I took a step forward towards the bar, then another. And another. I slowly made my way through the crowd as if I didn't have a care in the galaxy, which made a good excuse for disguising my limp. Medi-gel still had a lot more work to do.

Morex Reyissan was working at the bar, as I'd expected. Bartender, owner and overall cranky son of a bitch. One of the few batarians that still worked on the Citadel after the Hegemony seceded from the Council, mostly because he was too damn stubborn to leave. Still wearing the same old threadbare tank top, cargo pants and army boots. All in black, to match his mood.

A scar ran across and through his upper left eye. No one knew why. Word is that the last time someone dared to ask how he got his scar; Morex beat him up, chopped his balls off and served it to him in a martini glass. Knowing Morex, I'm betting that two of the three actually happened. It's that kind of reputation that encourages his customers to pay their bills—or make damn sure that they can afford to run a tab.

Supposedly, Morex comes from batarian royalty, the seventh son of a seventh son or something like that. Of course, this is the same Morex who claims he can generate mass effect fields through his farts, so you have to know when to take his advice and when to take it with a grain of sodium chloride. He pretended to ignore us. How did I know that? Because he was taking his sweet time in cleaning his glasses—which he normally never does.

He still had a glamour calendar from last year hanging on the wall behind him, showing the Consort in various positions with various characters, any of which would probably upset her greatly if she ever found out about it. There was a smattering of coasters on the bar, each showing a naked batarian woman. Supposedly, they were all wives or mistresses of random batarian politicians and military officers. Probably another reason why Morex never went back to the Hegemony. At least here on the Citadel, he could be his usual crude and contrary self and get away with it.

After a couple minutes, Morex got tired of pretending—or tired of scrubbing the crust off the shot glass—and shuffled over. "You look like crap, Garrus," he said.

"You should see the other guy," I cracked.

"I did. Bumped into Torsk at the spaceport when I was picking up a shipment of beer. He didn't have a scratch on him."

Behind me, I heard a lot of snickers, jeers and outright laughter. So much for my reputation. Conversations started back up again. Maybe they'd decided that they could tolerate my presence, since Morex had deigned to talk to me. Either that, or they'd dismissed me as a threat considering how easily Torsk had walked over me. Figuratively as well as literally. "Word got around already, huh?"

"No news like good news," Morex said easily, sliding a glass of turian brandy my way.

"You're all heart."

"Tell my ex-wife that. She's still harassing me."

"As I recall, I warned you about her," I murmured.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You gonna hassle me too?"

I was tempted. But only for a second. The fact that he was willing to talk to me, much less pour a drink, meant he was in a good mood. I needed that good mood to get what I wanted. "Nah. Been there, done that. How're you doing, Morex?"

"Business tanked ever since Saren and his geth buddies hit the Citadel," Morex griped. "Everybody's running a tab, whining that they can't pay for their drinks because the price for everything else went up. The wine's gone bad. And now you're here along with—who the hell are you, anyway?" he broke off, staring at Tali.

"His babysitter," she replied. I noticed she didn't give her name. Probably a smart move, considering our present company.

"Really?" Morex gave her an apprising glance. "What's he paying you?"

"'Paying'?" Tali snorted. "This is _Garrus _we're talking about. What do you think?"

I felt hurt. I really did.

"So it's all on the house, is that it?" Morex asked.

"Until he starts acting up," Tali replied sweetly. "Then I'll shove my shotgun up his ass 'till he coughs up the credits."

I shifted a millimeter away from her. While I admired her quick thinking, the mental images she'd conjured up were more than a little distressing.

Morex, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. "I like you," he declared, bursting into hearty laughter.

"I'm thrilled," Tali said, her voice dripping with unimpressed indifference.

Still chuckling, Morex bent underneath the bar. I heard several clinks as he shuffled bottles and glasses around before he came up with a small shot glass of amber liquid wrapped in plastic. "Turian brandy," he told her. "Sterilized, triple-filtered and still in its original packaging."

Tali nodded her thanks. "How much?"

"For you, nothing," Morex told her. "Garrus is paying."

"Sure thing," I said. Thank the spirits that I actually had some credits to spend. "After we talk about Geirk."

"That psycho?" Morex shuddered. "Geez. Why? You got a death wish?"

"Probably," I admitted, "but that's beside the point. Believe it or not, I have a couple questions to ask. Know where I can find him?"

Morex looked around, then tilted his head towards the side door. I nodded my thanks, took a sip, then put the brandy down—along with a sum of credits. Even if I hadn't actually finished—or started—the brandy, the tip itself was well worth the price. Then I got up and left.

Tali put her glass down and followed me. I noticed that it was empty. "You finished already?"

"Transferred the contents to one of my liquid storage containers," Tali replied. "It's probably not a good idea for me to get drunk before combat."

"Probably," I agreed.

"So who exactly is this Geirk?" she asked.

"Oh, answering that could take all day," I sighed.

"Summarize it," Tali insisted. "I get the feeling that I really need to know something about him."

"And you'd be right," I nodded. "So… Geirk. Crazy, homicidal vorcha with a borderline obsession for carnage and mayhem. Only vorcha that was refused entry into the Blood Pack for unacceptable brutality. Infamous for a dizzying and startling number of decapitations, dismemberments and eviscerations at the age of three—which, considering the average lifespan of a vorcha, is comparable to a teenager on a galactic killing spree."

"Ooookaaay," Tali said cautiously. "That seems... excessive. And just a little bit worrisome."

"It gets better," I reassured her. "About two years ago, Geirk vanished off the face of the galactic map. No one knew where he'd gone. No one bothered to look either, probably because they were too busy sighing in relief. Then he popped up again, claiming he was a biotic. There's a certain amount of skepticism about that, since the only 'biotic amp' he's allowed anyone to see consists of a damaged computer part attached to the back of his neck with duct tape. On the other hand, his kill count since then has included some feats that wouldn't normally be considered possible for anyone who didn't possess biotic abilities."

"And we're going to find him... why?"

"Like I told you earlier, Zephi isn't the only asari who's gone missing. Geirk is on the Citadel looking for another. It's possible that he knows something we don't. Even if he doesn't, it might be a good idea to work with him."

"Keelah," Tali breathed. "We... we _want _his help? Is that a good idea?"

"Spirits, no," I laughed. "But the alternative is working at cross-purposes against him and tripping over each other—which, believe me, is much worse. Besides, he's become a lot more selective in who he kills since his disappearance. He only accepts contracts to kill the worst of the worst. The kind of people who think they're untouchable because they're too rich or too powerful. As for everyone else, he usually limits himself to intimidating and scaring the crap out of them. Unless they get in his way, in which case all bets are off. Again, no one knows why. Just one of many unanswered questions when it comes to Geirk the Vorcha Biotic—yes he occasionally goes by that title, no I don't know why.

"Would I prefer to work with other allies? In a heartbeat. That's why I'm glad you're along for the ride—aside from the whole saving my ass thing. But we need more help. And Geirk... he might be extremely and thoroughly disturbing, but he's damn effective."

Tali shook her head. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"You and me both, Tali," I murmured. "You and me both."

Anything else I was going to say was interrupted by a certain sound. A sound that Tali and I had heard far too often. Well, Tali had heard it far too often. Me? It made me… I wouldn't say I felt alive or eager or thrilled. Nothing that would be so unprofessional. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel as if I was waking up.

Gunfire has a way of doing that, you see.

My hand automatically reached back for my assault rifle, instinctively knowing that it would be more suitable in the confined, close quarters of the alley than my sniper rifle. I saw Tali do the same with her shotgun. Good. I knew she was competent enough to look after herself, but the months she'd spent on the Normandy had honed her combat skills in a way that no other experience could possibly match. I lifted three talons and looked at Tali. She nodded, taking a position immediately to the right of the door. I folded one talon down… two… three… and slapped the door control. Tali wheeled around as the door opened, crouching down so she wouldn't get in my way as I raised my assault rifle…

…and…

…oh, spirits. This looked familiar. "Hey!" I yelled. "Stop shooting, damn it!"

In front of us was a trio of humans—one bald, one with red hair and one with a pot belly—facing off against a vorcha. Every one of the humans had a death grip on their weapons. Their hands were shaking in spite of themselves, which meant it would be a miracle if they could shoot straight. But my focus was on the vorcha.

Geirk was thin, almost painfully so. Wiry, corded muscles wrapped tight around a bone frame, covered in a ratty hardsuit and several layers of accumulated filth and gore. He held himself with a certain feral tension, poised to explode in a burst of bloodlust and violence at a moment's notice. Leather belts wrapped around his body, holding an assortment of knives, grenades, finger bones and other distressing items.

He turned slightly to look at me, while still keeping the humans in his peripheral vision. His eyes were fever-bright, like a blood-red sun about to go nova, and his lips were pressed in a grim, flat line. Until he saw me. Then he smiled. Maybe he was happy to see me. Maybe he was relishing the thought of ripping my throat wide open with his bare hands.

"Garrus," Geirk said, his voice a deep, guttural bass. "Long time no see."

"Yeah," I agreed, pleasantly surprised at a greeting that didn't involve the phrase 'Oh hell, it's you.' And, more importantly, the fact that my throat was still intact. "What are you doing?"

"Have questions. Yes. Humans answer or they die. Either way, won't take long. No."

I looked at the gathering in front of me and shook my head. "Let me guess: you came barreling in, guns drawn and demanded that they tell you what you wanted to know. When they hesitated, you opened fire."

"Close," Geirk nodded. "Humans call me 'vermin scum' too. Hurt my feelings. Yes."

"I'm sure they're sorry," I said soothingly, humouring the crazy psychopath. "Very, very sorry. Just do me a favour and keep at least one of them alive. I have some questions of my own to ask."

"Oh hell," Baldy said, his voice equal parts disgust and resignation.

"What?" Redhead asked.

"That turian. I recognize him. It's Garrus Vakarian."

"Shit," Redhead spat. "First Geirk and now Garrus. I knew I shoulda stayed home today."

"Gentlemen, the nice friendly vorcha and I have some questions," I said calmly. "It seems to me that you have two options. Option One: you answer any questions we have."

"Smart choice for you," Geirk butted in. "Yes."

"Option Two: you continue being obstinate," I continued, "in which case this nice, friendly vorcha will undoubtedly do something violent and horrible."

"Rip out spleen and feed it to you," Geirk added helpfully. "Humans not want that. No. But fun for me. Yes!"

"Okay, okay, okay," Baldy quickly said. "Slow down. We can take a hint."

"Hey!" Pot-belly snapped. "We gettin' plenty o' credits to do our job and keep our big mouth shut!"

"We won't get a chance to spend those credits if our guts are on the floor," Redhead pointed out.

"And walls," Geirk butted in. "Ooh! Maybe even ceiling? Yes?"

"Try not to sound so hopeful, Geirk," I murmured.

"Never get ceiling messy before," Geirk pouted—which was scary in its own right. "No."

Tali was uneasily shifting her shotgun, clearly uncertain who she should be covering. To be honest, I couldn't blame her. "Maybe I'll start before Geirk here starts indulging his… creative… side. I'm looking for this asari. Name's Zephi." A quick tap brought up her holo. "She went missing last night. Have any of you seen her?"

"Uh, yeah," Baldy admitted. "Pretended to be a scouting agent for a modeling agency. Told her she might have a future. Had to reassure her that this was all very respectable and no one would ask her to take her clothes off. Sent her to Amber's."

"My turn," Geirk spoke up. He smiled at them. If his intent was to reassure them, I think he failed. "Looking for this asari," he said, showing a holo from his omni-tool.

Redhead nodded so quickly I thought his head would fall off. "Yeah. I spotted her. Real hottie. She was looking for a good time. Told her to go to Amber's as well."

Amber's was scoring two for two. Interesting. "Somebody hired you to approach just any asari?" I questioned.

"Yep."

"Pretty much."

"And you sent all of them to Amber's."

"Uh huh."

"Every time."

"Uh huh," I said dryly. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Just over three weeks," Baldy shrugged.

"He told me about it after his first payment," Redhead added. "I got onboard two and a half weeks ago."

"Who hired you guys?" I wanted to know.

Redhead looked at Baldy, who shrugged. "Got an anonymous e-mail. Seemed like a prank, but then I had this date with an asari. She just went on and on about nobody liked her 'cuz both her parents were asari and I just got so _bored_, you know? Then I remembered the e-mail. Dropped her off at Amber's. Got paid the next day."

"How did this mysterious client know it was you who delivered and not some other person?" I asked.

"Told the asari that she could skip the cover fee if she said I sent her."

Simple. Easily adaptable. Though that brought up something else: "So you guys did this for a couple weeks now, sending random asari to some club and getting paid for it. And the thought of possibly helping a pervert with an asari fetish never occurred to you?"

"Well, it did," Baldy admitted.

"But it was easy money," Redhead offered.

"We kill them now?" Geirk asked hopefully. "Yes?"

How I wanted to say yes. That kind of bald-faced, blatantly selfish, uncaring attitude was exactly the sort of thing I detested. But as much as I wanted to lift my assault rifle and hose them all down with hot lead—well, not really, but metal alloy shavings doesn't have the same ring to it—I had to rise above that. "No," I said firmly.

"You sure?"

"Don't tempt me, Geirk," I groaned. "What happened to all the asari once they got to Amber's?" I asked.

Baldy and Redhead shrugged. "Beats me," the former offered. "I thought there was a big asari-only party going on there or something."

"We got paid to find blue chicks," Redhead added, "not to find out why someone had a thing for them."

"Um… I have a question."

Everyone turned to Tali. Who seemed to have settled on whom to aim her shotgun at. "Who exactly are you trying to contact?"

In unison, we all turned back to Pot-belly. "What do you mean, Tali?" I asked.

"Well, he's been tapping on his omni-tool while you asked the other two all those questions," Tali explained.

It's always the quiet ones. The unobtrusive ones who do their best to go unnoticed. "Why don't you answer the lady's question?" I prodded.

"She's a quarian," Pot-belly sneered. "So she can't be a lady."

"That not nice," Geirk declared, swapping his assault rifle for his shotgun. "No. Answer question now."

"Fuck off," Pot-belly spat.

While I wasn't getting any answers, I could make a few educated guesses. The only reason Pot-belly was being so discreet in activating his omni-tool is if he wanted to do something unnoticed. While there were tons of possibilities, some were more likely than others. He could have been activating something, like a bomb. His reluctance to cooperate would support such an extreme move. However, he struck me as being someone who enjoyed certain material comforts too much to end things so quickly.

Maybe he was activating something else. A mech, perhaps? But then he wouldn't need to keep playing with his omni-tool. Unless the activation sequence was particularly complex. Or he needed to activate it _and _set up a homing beacon.

But mechs weren't exactly widespread. Not at the moment, anyway. It seemed more likely that he'd be summoning some other help. Mercs, if he or his mysterious boss had the credits. Thugs, low-lifes and guns-for-hires if he didn't have a large spending account. Certainly the caliber of dirtbags I'd seen so far would support the scrape-and-spend theory. Except for Torsk, of course.

On a hunch, I casually checked my Heads-Up Display. Three bio-signs for Tali, Geirk and myself. Three more bio-signs for Baldy, Redhead and Pot-belly. So the other six bio-signs rapidly closing in on us would be…

…

Crap. "Hostiles, closing in fast!" I hissed quietly. And then, after a moment's thought: "Yes Geirk, we can kill them now."

Not so quietly, as it turned out, since Baldy, Redhead and Pot-belly all raised their weapons. Unfortunately for them, we were a little bit faster. I started to fire at Pot-belly before quickly switching to Baldy, draining his shields in short order. Tali loosed a volley or two at Pot-belly, then decided to deal with Redhead—after shorting out his shields and weapons with a tech mine.

Why did Pot-belly get a reprieve from the two of us, you ask? Because Geirk was sprinting towards him, maniacal grin stretching from ear to ear. "I kill you!" he howled. "Oh, _YES!_" Pot-belly was busy backpedalling as quickly as his rotund frame would allow, finger firmly on the trigger on his assault rifle. All that did was increase the recoil until he missed Geirk—and Tali and I—completely, not to mention overheating his rifle. Then all he could do was stare in complete and abject terror as Geirk knocked him on his sizeable ass with a single shotgun blast… before baring his claws and pouncing on top of him.

A little too enthusiastic for my taste, but to each their own. Besides, he was clearly enjoying himself. Who was I to deny him his kicks? As long as I didn't have to clean up the mess, of course.

Okay, okay—and as long as any cleanup didn't require a bucket and mop.

Speaking of cleanup, I had to finish off Baldy. Which was easier said than done, since he was hiding behind a garbage can. No clear line of sight. Tali had similar problems in dealing with Redhead, who had found shelter behind a garbage can of his own. On the other hand… "Tali," I shouted. "Switch targets!"

Tali turned on Baldy without hesitation, taking him out with two shots in quick succession. Such a rapid rate of fire overheated her shotgun, which would have made her vulnerable to a counter-attack from Redhead—had his weapon not been suffering a misfire from _my _tech mine. Gripping my assault rifle in two hands again, I lifted it up, aimed through the scope and fired. A single sustained burst was enough to drop him.

Now that the immediate danger was over, I spared a second to bring up my HUD again. Eight blips closing in on our position. Either two more dirtbags had joined the party or they had been too close to each other for my hardsuit's sensor array to distinguish them. I brought Tali and Geirk up to speed.

"My shotgun has almost cooled down," Tali reported, hand dropping to one of her many pouches. Possibly for another tech mine. Good move. If the scumbags arrived a little early, she could contribute to the fight without risking another overheat—occasionally, weapons seized up completely instead of venting excess heat like they were supposed to.

"More meat to kill," Geirk chuckled menacingly, switching back to his assault rifle. "And not even my birthday. No."

"Um… okay, then," Tali said, moving towards a conveniently stacked set of crates. Being at a similar loss for words myself, I gestured for Geirk to take cover behind a garbage can… before getting an idea. "Geirk, wait!"

I quickly laid out my plan. Geirk gave me a toothy grin before helping me move the bodies. Then we found cover and waited.

It didn't take long before the reinforcements arrived. The shadows of the eight dirtbags quickly darkened the entrance to the alley. Their muffled whispers drifted towards us. I strained my ears in an effort to hear their conversation to no avail. Tali might've been able to hear them if she maxed out the gain on the audio sensors in her helmet, but I couldn't ask her without giving away our position. Or presence, for that matter. So I stifled my curiosity and waited some more. It was only a matter of time before they entered the alley to find out where their buddies were.

The dirtbags kept us waiting a little longer, though. There was a lot of heated discussion, judging by the intensity of the whispers. Lots of arm waving, pointing and shoving too. Maybe one of them would be the sort of person who took command by shooting anyone who was particularly vocal. Establishing leadership by way of intimidation and violence. Effective, if you didn't care about little things like independent thinking and initiative.

Eventually, the dirtbags got their act together. One by one, they entered the alley, occasionally pausing to let their buddies pass them. It was clear they were attempting to establish firing positions and cover their colleagues as they advanced down the potentially hostile alley. What the humans called 'leapfrogging.' I say attempting because none of them displayed or demonstrated any experience at this sort of thing. Within the first ten seconds, I counted seven instances where they bumped into each other or bumbled into someone else's firing lane—thus defeating the whole point of the exercise. By the thirty-second count, I was grinding my mandibles at the sheer incompetence of these amateurs. I know I shouldn't be complaining, but still! Guess I hadn't shaken off everything I learned during my military service.

I waited until they were only a couple metres away before digging out another tech mine. Turning slightly, I showed it to Tali and Geirk. Tali got a tighter grip on her tech mine. Geirk began rummaging through one of his belts, almost pawing at it before digging out a grenade. I lifted three talons, then counted down.

At zero, I lobbed my tech mine towards the right. Tali's tech mine soared towards the left. They exploded in unison, catching the first three punks in an overlapping wave of sparks. The remaining five came to an abrupt halt, a response that Geirk was clearly counting on. With a flick of his wrist, he sent his grenade twirling through the air. It went up in a high arc before plummeting down into the midst of the stragglers. "Kaboom, bitches!" he screeched as it blew up in their faces.

To summarize, we'd stopped the dirtbags from advancing by tossing a pair of tech mines in front of them. We'd discouraged them from retreating thanks to a well-tossed grenade behind them. And the confines of the alley made it impossible for them to go left or right—unless they could somehow walk through walls. All eight dirtbags had come to a screeching halt, were packed in a nice tight cluster and were completely and utterly exposed.

Sometimes I amaze even myself. I took a moment to savour my sheer brilliance.

Then I raised my assault rifle and opened fire.

* * *

"So let me get this straight," Geirk said. "You look for asari."

We'd just finished off all the dirtbags. No more reinforcements were coming—according to the readings from my HUD and the lack of any jamming. And we'd finished looting all the bodies—another lesson learned from Shepard. Spirits, I missed him. "That's right," I confirmed, before I could depress myself even further.

"I look for asari. Both asari taken by same person or persons. Pool resources, work together, better odds of getting asari back. Yes. Higher kill count too."

"That's the plan," I agreed, happy to see that something had gone according to plan. Homicidal tendencies aside, Geirk had proven that he could keep his bloodlust under control and work as part of a team if it meant getting the job done. With the three of us working together, this might actually work out.

That reminded me: "Geirk, this is Tali. Tali, Geirk."

"Pleased to meet you," Tali offered. I gave her bonus marks for keeping her trepidation under wraps.

"You good with shotgun," Geirk replied. "Brave too, for hanging around crazy psycho here." He tilted his head towards yours truly, as if there was any doubt to whom he was referring to. "I like you."

Tali looked at me. I said nothing, too busy marveling at—how humans put it? Ah!—the pot calling the kettle black. "Um… thanks?" she managed at last.

"You're welcome," Geirk growled cheerfully. With that, he headed out of the alley. Tali and I exchanged another look, shrugged in unison, then hastened to follow him.

"By the way," Geirk added. "I have lead."

"Huh?"

"What?"

"Number of kills. I have lead."

"Hey!" Tali cried out indignantly. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

"You killed bald human, Garrus killed one with red head. I killed fat guy."

"That's one each," I said.

"Tali killed two more with shotgun. Garrus killed two with assault rifle and sniper rifle. I killed two with assault rifle, then finish off rest with bare hands. I have lead. Yes."

Crap. He was right. How did that happen? Too busy keeping any eye on everyone, I guess. Note to self: work harder, work smarter. I'd be damned if I let a crazy, homicidal vorcha get a higher kill count than me!


	5. All Things Come in Threes

**Chapter 5: All Things Come in Threes **

To my complete and utter astonishment, things were looking up. My case was actually going somewhere. I now had a sense of why my client's daughter had gone missing. Maybe it had started as a cry for attention or an attempt to escape a neglectful mother. But now it had turned into an abduction, one of many that fit a particular profile.

I also had allies, who had proven they could handle themselves in combat and—more importantly—could work together towards a common goal. This case hadn't even seen the end of the first day, and already I'd been beaten up and shot at. Whoever was behind these abductions, they meant business. It was a relief to know that my… my _team _meant business too.

Finally, after patiently tracking down fruitless lead after fruitless lead, I had a destination. All the abductees had been tricked or manipulated into going to the same establishment—Amber's. So that's where we were headed next.

As we walked, I tried to remember everything I knew of Amber's. It started out as one of many run-down and seedy clubs, indistinguishable from the rest what with its poor lighting, sticky floors, watered-down drinks and overcharged prices. Almost as if they were trying to meet every questionable criteria on some list.

Then they started cleaning up their act. Adding more lighting in general—decent stuff, not the cheap crap that burned out within a month or developed a permanent flicker within a week. They actually started cleaning the floors, not to mention walls and tables and chairs. Funny how a little thing like that can make such a difference. And they stopped watering down the drinks, so you could actually get a buzz. Spirits, they even stopped ripping off the… oh, who am I kidding? Their prices were still outrageous. Baby steps, I guess.

Back when I was still working with C-Sec—both before and after that exciting, terrifying time I spent with Shepard on the Normandy—I used to keep an eye on the place. Deep in my gizzard, I knew there was something wrong about the place. The speed of the makeover was too sudden for my liking. For that matter, where did the owners find the credits to pay for all that? I tried to follow the money trail, but to no avail. Whoever it was, they'd done a damn good job of covering their tracks.

There was something off about the people too. Some of the staff seemed to have gaps in their work histories that never seemed adequately explained. Where they'd come from, what qualifications they possessed, that sort of thing. And the _customers_… as humans would say, there was something piscine about them. The long-term customers always seemed to have long-standing ties to certain unsavoury businesses, semi-legal enterprises and organized crime. Not to mention all the credits—and sapients—they had in their pockets. As for the more… transient clientele, they always seemed to arrive just before something happened. The arrival of a suspicious shipment, a heist of some sort, the sudden death of someone. Their departure was just as convenient.

If I had my way, I would've shut the whole place down. Rounded up the staff and as many customers as I could into custody for interrogation. Scan every squad millimetre and go through every computer terminal and omni-tool. And then maybe burn the place down as a public service. Accidentally, of course.

Naturally, that didn't happen. Brass wouldn't sign off on it. All circumstantial evidence and hearsay, they said. In order to authorize any kind of thorough investigation, we needed hard proof. Of course, the only way to get that hard proof was to conduct a thorough investigation. Privately, some of them admitted that. But they wouldn't budge. Which left me with no other choice but to keep an eye on Amber's on my own time.

And people always asked me why I never had a social life.

Sadly, I never got any of that hard proof. In fact, I only got one thing out of all my extracurricular activities. Well, two if you count the missed opportunity to hook up with a really hot turian I met once upon a time. Three, if you count the missed opportunity to take a gorgeous asari up on her offer of catching a movie. Four, if you...

...all right, all right! I gave up romance and happiness to chase my obsessed and possibly skewed interpretation of justice. You happy now?

Anyway, the only upside to all that time I spent alone and single was a thorough knowledge of the back alleys, catwalks and maintenance tunnels around Amber's. Which I was currently using instead of the main streets, which any idiot could monitor with his eyes closed. Well, not really, but you get the idea. I was in the lead, since I supposedly knew where I was going. That left Tali and Geirk to chat.

"Shotgun pellet fragments and spreads out," Geirk was saying. "Cause damage."

"I know how a shotgun works," Tali replied. "I have fired one before."

Geirk shook his head. "But you not use shotgun properly. You wait too long to fire. Let pellet spread too far. Not cause maximum damage. Yes. Your shotgun—one you use now—you always have it? Always train with it?"

"No," Tali shook her head. "I started out with a Mark I Storm shotgun."

"That the problem," Geirk shook his head. "You treat all shotguns the same. Should not do that. No. Shots from Storm series spread quickly. Poor accuracy. You compensate by letting target get closer before shooting.

"But that shotgun different. I see it have tighter spread. Better accuracy. You can shoot targets farther away. Not have to let target get close before dying. Not have to fire so many times. Not have to risk overheat."

Spirits. Was Geirk giving Tali a... lesson?

"I... guess I never realized that," Tali admitted.

"Me, don't mind if targets get close," Geirk continued. "Get close, stop firing shotgun, use claws. Rip throat out. Or heart. Or guts. Or spleen. Like having choice. Yes. But you not have claws. Maybe better if you not let targets get _that _close. Yes?"

"Yeah," Tali agreed. "Makes sense."

Tali was always up for learning and trying new things. That's one of the reasons why I liked her. But if she started mimicking Geirk's way of speech, then we might have a problem. Better to finish this case as soon as possible. Yes.

...

Crap.

I picked up the pace a bit. Mostly because that pile of decomposing... whatever-it-was that the keepers hadn't picked up yet was really stinking up the joint. And, maybe, just maybe, because the thought of adopting some of Geirk's bad habits was scaring the crap out of me—"Whoa-whoa-WHOA!"

"Garrus!"

Though maybe not quite as much as the thought of falling off the catwalk and plummeting all the way to the ground, where I'd become a pile of decomposing turian-in-hardsuit. As the humans say, 'slow and steady wins the marathon.' And 'watch your feet.' And other sayings and clichés that I undoubtedly mangled beyond recognition.

"Are you all right, Garrus?" Tali wanted to know.

"Yeah," I reassured her. "I'm fine. Just tripped, I guess."

"Garrus get paid for finding asari," Geirk reminded me. "Yes. Garrus not get paid for taking header off catwalk. Not paid for screaming all way down like little girl. Not paid for getting smushed into big, flat dextro pancake. Not—"

"All right, all right!" I burst out. "I get it!"

"Just try to help. No charge. No."

I continued on my way, though at a slower pace than before. Tali and Geirk followed me as we went up a ladder to another catwalk, up again to the top level. Then we walked along before going down, then down again. Took a left here, a right there, another left here, then another right. Finally, we went down corridor B-something and through exit junction A.

And there we were: Amber's. Still had the coloured concrete walls, real authentic stone cobblestones—I once did a mineralogical scan to make sure—and stained glass windows. Very warm and inviting if you didn't know any better. Still warm and inviting if you had legitimate—or illegitimate—business.

But if you were bumbling around looking to cause trouble, like yours truly, then the greeting could be considerably colder. Vacuum-of-space cold. Motioning with one hand, I brought Tali and Geirk to a halt. "All right," I began, "we need to get some intel before we go any further. Zephi and the other asari could be anywhere inside Amber's."

"Is Amber's a large establishment?" Tali asked.

"No," I shook my head. "But there are still a lot of places they could be. Near the front door. In the middle. In the corner. In the kitchen. By the back door."

"Also need to know number of people who need killing," Geirk added. "Or might need killing."

"Uh... yeah," I nodded. "That too. We don't know how many people are in this asari-targeting racket. Or how many people might support them simply because they don't appreciate outsiders running roughshod through their local watering hole. Going in guns blazing is a great way to get us killed. We need to think about this carefully and plan our next move."

Tali turned her head sharply and stared at me. At least, I assume she was staring at me. Her helmet's faceplate was certainly facing me. "What?" I asked. "You disagree?"

"No, no, that's exactly what I was thinking," Tali said. "I... just didn't expect you to say that."

"Think you know someone," Geirk sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. "Then find out it all lie. Yes."

This was another reason I missed Shepard. In any other situation, it would be _him _being the voice of reason and _me _poking fun at him. You never appreciate what you have until it's gone...

"All right," I said, shifting the topic away from my newfound image as a responsible turian and back to the task at hand. "Geirk will go in and gather intel. I'll cover the front entrance to make sure we don't have any unexpected company; Tali gets the rear."

Seeing Tali's head tilt in curiosity, I elaborated: "If I go in, and even one person recognizes me or pegs me as a former C-Sec officer, my cover—and the chances of getting the asari out safe and sound—will be blown."

"What about me?" Tali wanted to know.

"Three years ago, a quarian was hired to fix the plumbing at Amber's," I told her. "One of several illegal workers."

"And?" Tali prompted. "What happened?"

"We found his body dumped in an alley. He'd only been working a week. I'd never seen that many bullet wounds, lacerations and broken bones on a single body before."

"You know? The back entrance sounds like a good idea," Tali decided firmly. And quickly. Couldn't blame her.

"Geirk has a reputation as..." I trailed off, trying to find a delicate way to put it.

"Dirty rotten scoundrel?" Geirk suggested. "Brooding bad boy? Crazy homicidal psycho?"

He sounded so proud. I guess I would be too, if I was in his shoes. Except the last part, of course. Honest. "The point is that he's known amongst the kind of clientele Amber's attracts," I continued. "As long as he can provide a story that doesn't involve missing asari, he'll fit right in. No one'll suspect a thing."

"Already got story," Geirk reassured me. "I go in to find missing batarian. Got bet going that I find him before bounty hunter Massani."

"Zaeed Massani?" I asked curiously.

"Yes," Geirk nodded. "You know him?"

"Only by reputation," I replied. "Everyone on both sides of the law's heard of Zaeed Massani. He's one of the best—and infamous—bounty hunters and independent mercs out there," I elaborated for Tali's benefit. "He'll go from one end of Citadel space to the other end of the Terminus Systems to get his man, or woman, and to hell with anyone who gets in his way."

"Sounds like your kind of guy," Tali said wryly.

Since when did she get so cheeky?

"So: trying to beat Zaeed Massani to the punch. Yeah. They'll buy that. Just... do me a favour, Geirk?"

"Keep heads intact so you can blow them away later?"

"Don't get carried away," I pleaded. "It would be nice to keep the body count to a minimum."

Geirk shot me a weird look. "Must be on something. Need drug testing. Yes."

"And on that cheerful note, I'm heading to the back," Tali said.

True to her word, she left almost immediately. Geirk waited for about five minutes, more than enough time to ensure that she was in position, before strolling towards the front entrance.

Then I was alone once more.

* * *

I stood there, hidden in the shadows. As my eyes watched, darting around to pick up any and every detail, my mind raced back. This was just like that... well, it wasn't exactly a mission. Assignment, perhaps? Whatever it was, it occurred during one of our return trips to the Citadel. Shepard had overindulged his usual habit of looting every crate, container and corner and wanted to sell off the excess before his back gave out—or before Ashley finally had enough and assaulted a superior officer for constantly giving her more work.

After selling all the weapons that he didn't have any use for, he indulged another habit of his: approaching random strangers, striking up a conversation and learning everything there was to know. This led him to talk to a waitress at Flux named Rita, whose sister Jenna had been recruited to work at Chora's Den as an undercover informant. And _that _triggered a third habit of his: offering to help someone who needed help. That habit, at least, we share. Or shared.

Shepard had a way of convincing people to help him or help themselves. Sadly, it didn't always work. Try as he might, he couldn't convince Jenna that her new life would be very exciting and very short. That's when Chellick stepped in. He didn't usually take such a personal involvement in his undercover operations unless he deemed it necessary. Evidently, an upstart human Spectre and a hotheaded former C-Sec officer bumbling around Chora's Den qualified as necessary.

It turned out that Chellick was using Jenna to track down an illegal arms producer. He'd gathered enough intel that he was willing to cut her loose and extract her, but he still needed some more hard evidence. True to form, Shepard offered to help acquire that evidence by meeting a seller and picking up a shipment of weapon and ammo mods.

I helped Shepard set up the meet. On my advice, we split the squad into three groups. One group would meet the seller, Jax. Meanwhile, the other two groups would stake out the entrances to the meeting point in advance, just to make sure there weren't any surprises.

My inner musings were interrupted by the telltale hiss heralding the opening of a comm channel. _"Garrus?"_

All right. Time to focus. "Yeah, Geirk?"

"_No asari seen in dining area. Moving to rear."_

"_Wait, Geirk."_

That was Tali. "What's going on?" I asked.

"_I have an asari... stumbling her way towards the back. She's activated the door chime. And a human just opened the door—looks like a bouncer. They're... hang on, let me turn up the gain on my audio feeds."_

...

"_The bouncer is telling her that the line-up is at the front. Unless she's a stripper, but he doesn't think she is because no one called in sick tonight." _Tali reported. _"The asari is saying... Ugh, she's saying she could totally take her clothes off if she wanted to... now the bouncer is checking her out... no, I think he's just staring down her blouse... now he's asking if she comes here frequently and she's saying..._"

...

"_I think she said Sam sent her," _Tali said. _"Hard to tell—she's slurring a lot. And she's swaying back and forth so much, she's making me dizzy. But the bouncer stopped staring at her breasts to look up and down the alley. And... now he's letting her in."_

Ah yes. Nothing identifies a vile pit of injustice quite like a man going from pervert to professional in ten milliseconds flat. "Geirk? Change of plans. Stay where you are and—"

"_See asari. Yes. Will keep eyes on her. Won't lose her. No."_

With that decided, I returned to watching and waiting. Just like Shepard and I did, all those months ago. We were tasked with meeting the weapons buyers and receiving the merchandise. While we waited, Shepard and I talked. I'd told him that I didn't have a problem with being patient and waiting around. In these kinds of situations, you had to arrive early. Make sure you aren't followed, secure the area, get a sense of the terrain and local traffic, watch for potential threats or dirtbags.

I was all for putting in the time and effort to get the job done, but not if it meant satisfying some data-pusher or bureaucrat who had spent too much time sitting in front of a computer to know the crap that was happening out in the real world. I didn't have the patience to sit idly by while innocent civilians suffered at the hands of criminals and cowards.

I could tell he sympathized with me, but didn't entirely agree. Sure enough, he confirmed it in a subsequent conversation—he too didn't believe in standing idly by when innocents clearly needed his help. But sometimes he disagreed with how the situation should be handled. Where I might call a move decisive, he might deem it sloppy. Where I saw efficiency, he saw expediency.

Spirits, he might've had something to say about my whole 'go-to-Omega-and-dispense-justice' idea. We'd only known each other, fought side by side, for a year, but that was more than enough time for me to know that he was the better man. A true hero that truly deserved all the praise and accolades, no matter how much he might want to deny them—and I could tell he sincerely wanted to deny them.

I wished he was here. Not just for his silver tongue or his tactical prowess, but because he had a knack for figuring out the best path through any problem. And because I missed him.

But Shepard wasn't here. He was dead. All I could do was fumble my way through and hope I didn't fuck it up.

I couldn't afford to do that. Zephi's life might depend on it.

"_Garrus?"_

Of course, Zephi wasn't the only asari who was in danger. "Yeah, Geirk?"

"_Asari enter bar."_

Wait. I've heard this story before.

"_Human right behind her. Asari get drink, even though she already hammered. Asari chug drink down while human scan her with omni-tool. Human give signal to bartender. Bartender mix another drink—but think he add something. Asari drink that too. Asari slump on bar. Bouncer and bartender call her cheap drunk. They take her out back door."_

Okay. Maybe I hadn't.

"_I can confirm that," _Tali reported. _"Two humans, with the asari between them. They're heading down the alley."_

I quickly pulled up a map of the surrounding area on my HUD. "Tali, stay where you are," I ordered. "Watch them until they're out of sight, then wait at least three minutes before following. I'll be in position by then. Geirk, I'm sending a NavPoint to your omni-tool. You'd better be there in ten minutes tops."

* * *

There's an art to tailing a target. Go into it without knowing what you're doing and you'll be made. If that happens, your target might run. Or lead you into a trap. Or take hostages. Or open fire. Or—if you're _really _unlucky—shit their pants. No matter how you roll the dice, they'll always come up with something dangerous, potentially lethal and probably messy.

You have to blend in to your surroundings. Walk like you have somewhere else in mind, someone else to meet, and you just happened to be in the same area and at the same time as your target. Always be aware of any sites or activities you can take advantage of if your target pulls off any counter-surveillance techniques. Window shopping, stopping to admire a hot chick, that sort of thing.

You can't get too close or walk too fast, or your target will make you for sure. You can't hang back too far or go too slow, as you risk losing your target. Every target, every situation is different. It takes a combination of training, experience and instinct to know how to follow your target, how much lead you should give and when you should stop.

It's easier to tail a target when you have a team. When you have a team, you can pass off to a partner and then wander off. Let your partner trail along for a spell before passing off to someone else. Do it often enough and it'll be a lot harder for the dirtbags to figure it out. It's not impossible—all it takes is one person whose training or tradecraft is sloppy and the dirtbags'll start actively looking—but it's a lot harder.

Of course, there's an art to that too. You have to know when to pass off to the next member of your surveillance team. That involves things like gauging the wariness of your target. Extrapolating where they're heading in the next few minutes. You also have to keep track of how many times a particular team member is doing the following. If your tail is paying attention and employing the proper techniques, he and she will realize that the same person or persons keep showing up, at which point the jig is up.

And the most important thing of tailing a target with a team? Keep them in the loop. Nothing identifies a tail quite like running onto the scene and wildly looking around. Trust me—it's happened more times than I care to remember.

So I let Tali follow the humans and the asari out the alley and down a few blocks. By then, I was ready to take her place. A quick text message to Tali sent her meandering towards a kiosk selling hardsuit mods while I smoothly sauntered in. I tracked the targets while pretending to surf the extranet on my omni-tool. After a few minutes, I started picking up the pace. It wasn't long before I passed them, which was fine since Geirk was in position and ready to follow them from the catwalks.

We did this for the next half hour, switching over at random points. It was tricky at first. I had to cover as many possible paths as possible, which isn't easy when you only have three people. But I had a couple ideas on where they were going. After a while, it became an idea. Singular.

And after a while, it became a very strong feeling in my gizzard. From there, it was only a short skip and hop to a sure thing. Tali and I entered the corridor together and joined Geirk at a junction point. "Humans take asari in there," he said, tilting his head towards the door.

"Chora's Den?" Tali groaned. "Again? Really?"

"Been here before," Geirk guessed, his words more a statement than a question. "Yes."

"Tali had some information on Saren," I began.

"Saren?" Geirk interrupted. "Spectre Saren? Got tired of sitting, staying and playing fetch with Council masters Saren? Went rogue, got geth army, tried to take over galaxy while twirling mustache Saren?"

"Yes, yes, yes, sort of," I replied, answering his questions in order. "He didn't have a mustache to twirl."

"You sure?"

"Very."

"Can't trust what you read on the extranet," Geirk sighed, shaking his head. "No."

"_Anyway_," I said loudly, "Tali had information connecting Saren to the geth. She offered it to the Shadow Broker in exchange for protection. The Shadow Broker put her in touch with one of his agents, Fist.

"I met Fist at his workplace—Chora's Den," Tali took over. "After a few minutes of conversation, he directed me to a nearby alley, where I would meet the Shadow Broker. I didn't know that Fist had sold out to Saren and the so-called meeting was actually with some of Saren's hired goons."

"Meanwhile, I was trying to continue my investigation into Saren's activities," I continued. "Turned out a human named Shepard was trying to do the same thing. We joined forces, along with a krogan bounty hunter, and stormed Chora's Den. After a lot of fighting, we managed to get some information from Fist before he was killed. Then we went after Tali, and found her just in time."

"Though I was holding my own quite nicely until you showed up," Tali added.

"True," I conceded. "And now we're back here again. Funny how things go full circle." Taking a chance, I peered around the corner. "Not much traffic," I observed. "Come to think of it… there isn't any traffic at all." Raising my arm, I activated my omni-tool. "Hmm."

"Hmm?" Tali prompted.

"According to this, Chora's Den is temporarily closed due to 'unforeseen circumstances.' They'll be open as soon as possible, apologies for any inconvenience, ya-de-ya-de-ya-da."

"Convenient," Geirk growled. "Yes."

"Yes," I agreed, my mind spinning. I entered in a quick search. My omni-tool spat out the results. "Interesting," I said aloud.

"On a hunch, I looked up all news and social media announcements on Chora's Den," I explained, before Tali or Geirk could ask. A quick tap brought up a holographic display of the results over my omni-tool. "As you can see, Chora's Den has had four unexpected closures over the last year. The first one occurred when Shepard and I went in, guns blazing, to find Fist and get some answers.

"What interests me are the other occurrences. The second closure was almost three weeks ago—about the time that all these random asari disappearances started. The third happened last night—which corresponds to Zephi's abduction. And now tonight's sudden shutdown, at roughly the same time that this asari was taken here."

"But I thought more than three asari have gone missing," Tali said.

I shook my head. "Most of those were resolved without incident. Besides, remember Geirk's report on the asari getting scanned? I'm betting that the person or persons behind these abductions are looking for asari that meet a specific set of criteria. They hired random thugs to redirect asari to Amber's, where they can run a quick scan without notice. If the asari don't match their criteria, let them drink themselves into a stupor or have a one-night stand. Something that doesn't draw any unwanted attention. But if they _are _a match, then they get drugged and delivered to Chora's Den—which conveniently closes to minimize the chance of any witnesses.

"Whatever they're doing, we have to stop them. Now."

"Garrus," Tali protested. "We'd be going in blind. For all we know, there could be dozens of criminals in there—please don't look so happy, Geirk," she added, spotting his toothy grin.

"Not exactly," I disagreed. "We know the layout: main room's a circle. Outer edge has some protection from tables and chairs. Bar set in the middle. On the other side is a door leading to a small storage room, with a door at the far end leading to the office.

"We also have the element of surprise. They've been doing this for almost three weeks without getting caught. And this is the third time they've transported an asari to Chora's Den, right under C-Sec's nose. There's a good chance that they've let their guard down by now."

"At least wait until we get some reinforcements from C-Sec," Tali pleaded.

"I already checked my inbox," I replied. "No response. All my e-mails must have been bogged down in the system. By the time Chellick or anyone verifies they aren't spam, opens them, puts in an official request for or unofficially mobilizes a rapid reaction force and gets over here, it could be too late. It could already be too late for Zephi and…" I paused, as a thought occurred to me. "Geirk, who are you after? And what exactly are the details of your contract?"

"Hired two weeks ago to find asari. Goes by Liselle. Either bring her back alive or kill everyone who helped abduct and kill her."

"Bring her back to…" I prompted.

"Omega."

Omega. The lawless epicenter of the lawless Terminus Systems. The same place I was destined for, assuming this job didn't kill me. And someone from that rotting cesspit wanted this Liselle badly enough to hire Geirk and offer the requisite bonus fee for his bring-'em-in-alive rates. I wished I had time to pursue that. But then, it wouldn't be the first time I wished for something. "Zephi and Liselle might already be dead," I continued. "But we might still be in time to save this last asari. I know it's a big risk. But there are lives at stake and we're as ready as we're ever going to get."

I took a deep breath. "So I need to know: are you with me? Will you help me?"

Tali paused, considering all the available options. Then she took a step towards me. "I'm with you, Garrus" she declared.

Geirk already had his assault rifle in his hands, practically bouncing on his feet. "Let's go kill bad guys."

Oh. _Yes_.

* * *

The terms of engagement were quite simple: get in, rescue any captives, get out. If anyone got in our way, they had one chance—and only one chance—to stand down before we put them down. Not something you'd see in the C-Sec handbook.

I spared a moment to pray that the spirits would understand my need for haste before leading my team through the door and into Chora's Den.

Most of it was just as I remembered it. Dimly lit. Floor, walls and ceiling all white, the better to reflect the lighting. Lights ran in a circle above the bar, glowing in an icy blue hue, while red lights smoldered from the walls of the bar itself and the perimeter of the room. The lights were individually bright, but small and spread out. The result was a mosaic of contrasts: bright but dim, harsh yet subdued.

Any conversation came to a halt as we barged in. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed, cold and empty one moment, fiery and burning the next. Hands dropped to weapons, which were present in depressingly predictable quantities. The silence lingered, almost deafening our ears. An intangible, unseen pressure vibrated through the air, building to an unbearable climax.

"We're here for the asari," I said at last. My voice carried throughout the room, distracting everyone from my careful series of eye movements and blinks. "We don't want any trouble."

Half the dirtbags in the room dove for cover. The other half pulled their various weapons out of their holsters. "Weapons free!" I barked.

Tali, Geirk and I were already ducking behind various tables I had selected with my HUD, pushing them over to protect us from the onslaught of gunfire. Geirk and I were firing our assault rifles in short bursts to keep the recoil down and minimize the heat buildup. Each round of fire was aimed at a different dirtbag, keeping them occupied and softening them up while Tali took them out with her pistol. She could have used a different weapon, but she'd never displayed any fondness for the assault rifle or sniper rifle. And the shotgun was only good at short range—meaning that if she had to resort to that, either we were in a position to be significantly more aggressive or we were thoroughly screwed.

Though she didn't have _all _the fun. She took out one surly turian—I pretended that she didn't mean to shoot him in the crotch first. Geirk would've gotten another, but a barrage of gunfire ricocheting off his shields sent him scurrying to another table. I finished off 'my' target before swiveling on my heels. The pair of humans trying to flank us stumbled to a halt, clearly realizing that they'd been made. I raised my assault rifle and opened fire, pouring a lethal stream of fire right through one of them. The other one took a flying leap to the side, sliding behind another table. No matter: Geirk and I were tied for five kills each, while Tali had four.

That was when two cylinders rose into position, one on either side of the door leading to the storage room and office at the back. A bright light burst into life at the top of each cylinder. _"Hostiles detected," _a female voice boomed out. Or voices—sounded like a couple VIs speaking in unison from the various speakers located throughout the room. _"Shield generators on-line." _

All right, I told myself: any doubts about whether we should make our way towards the back had just been squashed.

Then a single female voice spoke. _"Who am I?"_

That was weird. Another thing I'd have to investigate, once the situation had been downgraded from 'possibly terminal' to 'probably hazardous.' "Cover me," I yelled.

As Geirk and Tali complied, I switched to my sniper rifle. Aiming through the scope, I filtered out all the lights, the dull rapid thuds of automatic fire, the occasional boom from a shotgun, the screams of various dirtbags and the howls of joy from our resident vorcha psycho. I slowly exhaled, steadying my aim. My talon gently pressed against the trigger, almost caressing it…

…a shot rang out…

…and the left shield generator exploded, sending burning eezo and shrapnel everywhere. Including the hapless salarian who got shredded to pieces.

"_Alert: shield generator one off-line," _the voices announced in stereo. Then, a second later: _"What's that noise?"_

I panned my sniper rifle to the right. No clear shot—the bar was in the way. The same could not be said for the human with a day's growth of stubble on his face. "Seven kills," I announced, as I lowered my sniper rifle and sprinted for a better position.

"Five," Tali replied, as another human collapsed.

"Six," Geirk growled. "Enjoy while you can, Garrus. You not stay in lead for long. No."

"Talk is cheap, Geirk," I called out, spotting the perfect vantage point to take out the second shield generator. Unfortunately, there was a turian occupying that spot. Fortunately, I had momentum and surprise on my side. Without slowing down or pausing, I charged right into him, shoving him out into the open. Wrex would be proud, I reflected, as I crouched down. Again, I lifted my sniper rifle, aimed and fired.

"_Alert: shield generator two off-line."_

"_I don't remember."_

This time, no one was close enough to be taken out by the exploding shield generator. But that was okay—there was a target right in front of me. And looming over me. I lifted my sniper rifle as if to fire. The turian sneered, knowing that I couldn't possibly fire again. Not so soon. Not when my weapon was in the middle of venting all that heat.

I sneered back, just before rising to my feet and reaching out. Taken by surprise, the turian tried to step back. My arm shot out faster than he could retreat, my talons latching on his hardsuit. Then I dropped back down, letting my body weight and gravity overcome the dirtbag's momentum. I landed in a crouch. He landed on his face. I grabbed his head, lifted it up, then slammed it back down on the ground once. Twice. Three times. Then I pulled out my shotgun, jammed the barrel against the back of his head and fired.

"Eight," I called out.

"Six," Tali sang.

By then, my sniper rifle had cooled down. I lifted it up again, ignoring the dead turian, my shotgun, and the mess it had just made. Activating my HUD, I did a quick scan of the room. A quick blink of the eyes ordered Geirk to keep the approaching krogan occupied. Preferably before he tore us limb from limb. Tali was assigned to the pair of humans that were hiding behind the bar. She gamely lay down a steady stream of shots, keeping their heads down with every exploding bottle. That gave me plenty of time to line up some shots of my own.

"Nine and ten," I crowed. "Damn, I'm good."

"After letting me do all the work," Tali retorted. "Seven."

"Only because I soften _him _up for _you_," Geirk snapped. "Yes."

While Tali and Geirk were arguing, I did another sensor sweep. Someone had to keep an eye on the battlefield, after all. "Geirk, two more dirtbags coming from the far side. Keep them pinned down—wait." To my surprise, there were only three more dirtbags. "Geirk, take care of those dirtbags. Tali, you and I get the krogan."

"Time to die, bitches! Oh, yes! Bwahahahahaaaa!"

"_System in standby mode. EEG sync of new unit commencing."_

"_I can't see. Why can't I see?"_

Tali and I were slightly more restrained. On my order, Tali fired a couple shots at the krogan's face. Wouldn't kill him, thanks to his thick skull—and his shields—but it did slow him down. Just as he was passing by one of the light panels. Certified to meet Citadel safety codes, which meant they weren't designed to handle a pistol shot from yours truly. The resulting explosion of light and glass in his face, brought the krogan to a screeching halt. That bought me enough time to bring up my sniper rifle again and fire a perfect headshot.

One that _didn't _put him down. Geez, that skull of his must've been _thick_!

A single shot rang out. The krogan went down. I turned to my right. Tali raised the barrel of her pistol to her helmet, mimed blowing some imaginary smoke from it, then holstered it. "That's eight."

"Yes it is," I agreed. "Now let's see how Geirk is doing."

We turned around. Geirk was ducking, dodging, rolling, somersaulting... basically anything to avoid the frantic gunfire from the last two dirtbags. Their barely concealed panic was perfectly understandable: Geirk's reputation was far worse—and far bloodier—than mine. Yes, I know that's saying something. And while Geirk wasn't firing back, all his weaving back and forth _was _getting him inexorably closer to his targets. Which suggested that he wanted to use his shotgun.

Then he vaulted over a table and charged right towards them, ignoring the shots that were now bouncing off his shields. Guess he wanted to get up close and personal so he could rip their throats out…

…

Wait. "That light…?" I started.

"Around Geirk's hands…" Tali continued.

"Is that…?"

"It looks like…"

"Biotics?" we finished in unison, looking at each other in surprise.

We turned back in time to see Geirk swipe at one of the dirtbags. There was a bright flash of cerulean light. He swiped at the other dirtbag. Another flash. Then he turned around and beamed at us.

The bodies of the dirtbags flopped to the ground. Minus their heads, courtesy of two point-blank blasts of biotics that had torn them clean off their shoulders, turned them into gory mixtures of hair, skin, bone and brains and embedded them into the wall.

"I… didn't know vorcha had biotics," Tali managed at last.

"Spirits," I said. "He wasn't kidding. He really _is _a biotic."

"Seven and eight!" Geirk announced. "Booyah! Who's next?" He looked around eagerly, head whipping from side to side. Then he looked around again. And again.

"That's it?" he pouted.

* * *

Much to Geirk's dismay, that was it. There were no more scum to blight this corner of the galaxy. Nor were there any in the storage room or the short corridor leading to the office.

The office, however, was a different story. A salarian stumbled to his feet as we burst in. He was dressed in a lab coat, which had a few stains on it. Dark purple stains. About the same colour and hue as dried asari blood. We'd interrupted him in the midst of tinkering with…

…with…

…

"Spirits," I breathed.

"Keelah," Tali gasped.

We were all caught off guard by the… structure standing before us. A series of girders and bracings surrounded an industrial-grade power core, forming a rough pyramidal shape that took up most of the office. A series of bags, tubes and wires hung from hooks attached to the bracings. Even a civvie could tell what they were: drugs and nutrients, IV tubings and attachments for bio-monitors.

All hooked into the three asari.

They lay there, strapped in a vertical position by metal clamps fastened around their wrists, waist and ankles. Tubes and wires ran around them, plugging into them like they were some sort of machine.

"EEG sync complete," they said in unison. "All units within operational parameters."

Which, I suppose, was the whole point.

"My legs," the newest asari—not Zephi or Liselle—whimpered. "I can't feel my legs."

"Yes." I almost didn't recognize the voice, even though it came from my own mouth. I turned towards the salarian, my eyes narrowing. "What _is _going on?"

"Oh, just putting some theories into practical application," the salarian said, blinking his eyes.

This was going to end well. "'Practical applications'," I repeated. "Perhaps you could elaborate, Mister…"

"_Dr. _Belron, thank you," the salarian corrected, with an edge that suggested the distinction was very important to him. Not because addressing him by his proper title was the polite thing to do, but because he was a Very Smart Salarian Who Earned It. In my experience, people like that always need to emphasize how smart they are and the best way to do so was to talk about all their accomplishments. "Dr. Belron," I nodded amiably. "And this was your doing? No graduate students to put it together for you?"

Another calculated jab to his ego. Some scientists liked the prestige of being such an important and distinguished figure that they had underlings to do all the grunt work in the lab. Other scientists took pride in being all hands-on and being involved in the process. I didn't know which category _Dr. _Belron fell in, but it was a safe bet he'd talk either way.

"Used to have graduate students," Belron sighed. "And a lab. And _tenure_."

Ah yes. Tenure. Very important in academic circles. From what I understood, it basically meant you had a job for life.

"But then someone reported me for ethical violations. Some little person who was too small to dream big. Just like the disciplinary committee. So I got fired. And I wandered around. Before I pulled together the funding to come here and set up shop." Belron looked at his… contraption and shrugged. "A bit crude, but it's just a prototype. Proof-of-concept stuff."

"Fluctuation in coolant systems detected," the asari said in eerie unison. "Correcting." Then Zephi shuddered. "I feel… cold," she whimpered.

It was all I could do to ignore their suffering. "A prototype of…" I prompted.

"Society can't exist without VIs," Belron shrugged. "We need them to collate data, analyze data, monitor news feeds, organize itineraries. Do the basic low-level stuff so we can concentrate on other, more important things. And while VI development has progressed significantly over the decades, there are definite limits to how far they can progress. Any effort to push past their boundaries, to make them think abstractedly, to take some measure of initiative either results in the whole VI crashing or the production of an actual AI.

"I decided to try something new. People often forget what VI stands for: Virtual Intelligence. An effort on our part to create ersatz facsimiles of our own minds, with all their data processing and memory storage capabilities, to facilitate usage and operation of modern computer systems. But I asked myself 'Why settle for a copy when you can employ the real thing?' In many ways, sapient minds are still more advanced and sophisticated than VIs. So that's what I did."

"Core temperature stabilized," the asari said in eerie unison. "Processing." Then Liselle flinched. "What's going on?" she asked.

"You…" I think I was starting to understand what he was getting at, much to my utter horror. "You took a computer—"

"A very advanced supercomputer," Belron interrupted.

"—but rather than install a VI interface, you… you plugged in a… an _asari _interface?"

"Unlike other races, asari have conscious control over their own nerve impulses," Belron explained eagerly. "That level of awareness made them optimal candidates. At least, that's what I thought at first. It's commonly known that humans have a dramatically complex and varied range of genetic diversity. Awareness of asari nervous system diversity is less common. Even I didn't fully appreciate it until I began searching for candidates who were compatible with my process."

"Which is why you only have three asari plugged in when you've been doing this for almost a month," I nodded. "What happens if you put in an asari who is… incompatible?"

"The system will be unable to establish a proper connection," Belron replied. "If so, it will reject the new unit. A failsafe I incorporated into its design: I didn't want any data corruption to occur that might carry over to the other units."

"Units?" Tali gasped. "They're asari! Living beings!"

"Oh yes, of course," Belron nodded amiably. "They still are: the integration isn't complete, after all. I wasn't able to completely sublimate their own sense of self-identity, which causes a certain inefficiency in the network's neural matrix. Ideally, the units would be augmented with implants, but I'd need a surgical suite for that. Maybe remove any unnecessary biological components while I'm at it. Or not—finding enough supplies to keep them alive is hard enough with all their organs and other systems in place."

As horrifying as it was to hear Belron reduce these innocents to 'units,' there was a certain cause for hope. It sounded like whatever he'd done to them might not be permanent. Certainly it wasn't invasive.

"But I suppose none of that will be possible now," Belron sighed.

"Why do you say that?"

"You clearly don't appreciate my work. Don't deny it—your acts of repulsion and disgust are just like everyone else who learned the specifics of the project. You've eliminated the criminals I hired to find units for my project and protect it from, well, people like you. Judging by the guns in your hands and the fact that you're pointing them at me, you won't let me go. Even if you were, I've invested everything I had in this installation. I don't have the credits or equipment to find a new base and start again. And I doubt anyone would fund my work in prison."

True on all counts.

Belron let out a deep sigh of regret. "Too bad. I was _really _looking forward to see how the network would perform with three units."

Then he pulled out a pistol from its holster at the small of his back, put it against the side of his head and blew his brains out.

Tali jumped in surprise. Geirk frowned, no doubt because he was hoping to do that himself.

"Alert: deadman switch activated. Self-destruct initiated."

"Help me."

Crap.


	6. Believe

**Chapter 6: Believe**

You know what the worst part of this case was? It wasn't the fact that I took it for the credits. Nor the fact that I'd been beaten to a pulp and shot at. And it certainly wasn't the company—well, the female quarian company at least.

No, the worst part was finding out what had happened to Zephi. And all the other asari who had _stayed _missing. They'd been turned into living computers, hooked up and slaved to a network built by the immoral, insane dreams of a mad scientist. A mad _salarian _scientist, just like Dr. Heart. One of these days, I told myself, I was going to meet a _normal _salarian.

"Self-destruct in five minutes."

The fact that they all spoke in unison made it even creepier. "All right," I said. "We have to figure out a way to shut this thing down. Preferably without frying their brains." Yes, that was all fairly self-evident, but it sometimes helps to give voice to the painfully obvious. If only because we can move straight to the bafflingly un-obvious. Unknown. Oh, you know what I mean!

"Yanking wires off won't help," Geirk frowned. "No. Might fry brains. Yes."

Still in the realm of the obvious, I guess.

"Maybe we can stop the self-destruct sequence," Tali wondered. "Then we can free the asari without worrying about getting blown to smithereens."

"No."

Our heads snapped up. That was Liselle. Speaking by herself.

"Aborting the self-destruct automatically triggers a feedback pulse. These units… _we _would be killed."

"Same with trying to unplug us," Zephi chimed in.

Good news, the asari seemed to be aware of their surroundings and free of brain damage. Bad news: if they were right, then they were doomed no matter what we did. Stop the self-destruct and they would die. Try to unhook them and they would die. Do nothing and _all of us _would die in…

"Self-destruct in four minutes, fifty seconds."

Yeah. That.

Think, Garrus, _think_. There had to be something. "All right," I said aloud. "We can't stop the self-destruct without harming the asari. Even if that wasn't the case, none of us knows how to disarm a bomb." Well, most of us. I _sort of _knew, but I highly doubted that Belron wired his bomb using Hierarchy schematics. Besides, it'd been years since I did that. "So let's ignore that."

Tali shook her head. "Yes, let's ignore the explosion and shrapnel and fires and flying body parts."

"Mmm..." Geirk hummed. "Flying body parts."

I ignored Tali, who was simply trying to deal with this ridiculous situation the best way she knew how, and Geirk, who was, well, simply being Geirk. "Without the self-destruct, we just have to worry about that feedback pulse. It'll trigger if we remove the asari…"

…

And then I had an idea. A half-baked idea, but it was the best half-baked idea I had. "No. The pulse will trigger if it _thinks _the asari are being removed. If we could trick it, give it a false signal somehow—"

"Then all fail-safes will stay dormant while we free the asari," Tali finished.

"How fake signal?" Geirk wanted to know. "We not know."

"Belron did."

The look Tali was leveling at me was probably one of incredulity. "Garrus? In case you haven't noticed, he's dead. He can't tell us anything."

"But his omni-tool can. I'm betting that he stored all his research there. If we could find it and sync it into that," I gestured over my shoulder at the obscene apparatus the asari were attached to, "I'm betting we could fool the network into thinking that everything's okay."

"You said 'betting' twice," Tali said dryly. "Wonderful."

To her credit, she didn't waste any more time. She crouched by Belron's cooling corpse, opened a remote connection between her omni-tool and his, and began searching. Which was good considering we had—

"Self-destruct in four minutes."

Good to know. Now I had to sit by and wait while Tali worked her magic.

"Got it."

"Really?"

"Really. Genetic profiles, bio-electrical readouts, EEG readouts, normal ranges for asari."

"Great," I sighed. What a relief. "Now plug it in."

"Not just yet."

Spirits. "What?"

"What?" Tali looked at me. "You think I can just plug this into the network and call it a day? It won't recognize a raw data feed. It recognizes a data feed that corresponds to an active, living complex organism. That's an entirely different thing."

Oh. Right. Oops. "So... what are you doing?"

"Trying to whip up a program that will simulate the readings for an active, living, complex organism. An asari, to be exact. And then I have to code two more programs."

She said it so nonchalantly, like she did it every day. When the truth was that she'd never done this before. The best thing I could do was to keep my mandibles shut and let her do her job. So that's what I did. Every once in a while, I can do the smart thing.

"Self-destruct in three minutes, fifty seconds."

Miraculously, Geirk did the same thing. Granted, he was getting paid to bring Liselle back alive, but _still_. Not a single 'Yes' or 'No' or anything. If he could keep his big toothy mouth shut, maybe we could actually pull this off.

"Self-destruct in three minutes."

Talons crossed, as the humans would... probably _not_ say.

...

...

"Self-destruct in two minutes, fifty seconds," the asari intoned in unison.

"Please hurry," the third asari pleaded.

Tali could do it. I knew she could. I just had to wait and hope and believe that somehow she could pull it off.

...

"Self-destruct in two minutes."

"Almost got it..." Tali reported. "And..." She looked up at the apparatus and shrugged. "Good enough. Uploading now."

"Good enough?" I repeated.

"Like I have time to check the code for errors?" Tali asked rhetorically, her fingers flying over her omni-tool.

"Point taken," I conceded. "Did it work?"

"Program uploaded. Checking..." She got to her feet and shrugged. "I guess it worked. Only one way to find out."

Right. Only one way to find out: pick a random asari, yank her loose and see what happens. Now the humans have a way of randomly making selections without resorting to computers. It involves finger pointing and talking about 'Eenie,' 'Minnie,' 'Moe' and capturing felines by their paws. And releasing said felines should they offer some form of vocal protest. None of which makes any sense to me, so I chose the left asari—who happened to be Liselle—and started pulling wires and IV feeds loose.

"Ow!" she protested.

"Sorry," I apologized. Then it hit me. I looked down at the wires and feeds that I had already pulled loose, reached up, grabbed a fistful of leads... and yanked them from Liselle's head.

"OW! What the fuck?!"

"Swear words—" I started to say, before a hand whipped up and slapped me across the face. "Ow!" I complained.

"Bitch!"

"Swear words and violence instead of barbequed brains and drooling," I continued. "Looks like your digital sleight-of-hand worked, Tali."

Tali visibly sagged in relief. "Looks like. I wasn't sure if I could do—"

"Self-destruct in one minute, fifty seconds," Zephi and the other asari intoned.

"Congrats later," Geirk hissed. "I finish with Liselle—client hire me for her. Garrus—free Zephi. Tali—get other girl. Clock ticking. Yes."

Fine by me. I moved aside to let Geirk at Liselle while Tali and I freed the others. There might've been a bit of yanking, a little bleeding. Probably a couple bruises. But if we didn't get out of here, a couple scrapes and bruises would be the least of our worries.

As I tore off the last lead and caught Zephi in my arms before she collapsed to the floor, I couldn't help but think about what Shepard would do. This would be the part where he'd run around the office looking for things to swipe. His eyes would be gleaming as he tore open every crate, rummaged through every container and stuck his nose in every corner. No treasure would be too small for him, even if it was something as little as a mod for the grenades that he always carried but never used. No piece of loot would be too heavy, even if he had to lug every ill-gotten pistol, shotgun, assault rifle or sniper rifle on his own back. No item would be turned down, even if he'd convert it to omni-gel as soon as he got into the Mako.

That's one of the differences between us. Shepard used to be a kleptomaniac. I used to be a cop. But then he became a kleptomaniac Spectre. And I became an ex-cop with... a growing but considerably more discerning taste in illicit goods... obtained under questionable but undoubtedly justified circumstances. Right. That's the story I'm sticking with.

"Self-destruct in one minute."

This time, the warning didn't come from any of the asari. It came from the network. The one that used to hold all the asari captive. The one that still had a bomb ticking. The one that would soon be going up in flames. Preferably without burning anyone to a crisp. Well, aside from Belron. He could burn. "All right," I declared. "Let's move! NOW!"

Geirk, Tali and I quickly got a firm grip on the asari and hauled, carried or dragged them from the office.

"Self-destruct in fifty seconds."

We got them through the corridor.

"Self-destruct in forty seconds."

We entered the main room.

"Self-destruct in thirty seconds."

We weaved our way around and over all the tables and chairs that had been knocked around, as well as every human, asari, salarian, turian, batarian and krogan dirtbag who had gotten in our way.

"Self-destruct in twenty seconds."

Wow. We'd made quite the body count.

"Self-destruct in ten... nine... eight..."

We made it to the entrance of Chora's Den. By that point, I was in the lead. I got Zephi outside, gently lowered her to the ground and turned back to help Tali. Geirk was right behind us.

"...seven... six...five..."

The countdown was cut out, muffled by the doors closing. I promptly picked Zephi up and started dragging her away.

"Garrus?" Tali asked, following me despite the confusion in her voice.

"Trying to get a bit more distance," I explained.

"The self-destruct can't be _that _powerful," Tali said in disbelief.

"Garrus crazy," Geirk shook his head. "And that saying—"

Whatever he was about to say, I never found out. He was interrupted by a sudden quake that swept us off our feet and sent us sprawling on the floor. A sharp shriek grated our ears as the doors abruptly expanded towards us. While it didn't explode outwards, the seam where the doors met did crack open, letting a thin stream of flame, superheated air and smoke lance out to scorch the ceiling. And set off the fire alarms.

Propping myself up on one elbow, I turned to Tali and Geirk and raised one eyebrow.

"Maybe I was wrong," Tali admitted, raising her voice to make herself heard over the clamor.

"Who knew?" Geirk offered.

* * *

"Whaddya mean Chora's Den blew up?" Chellick asked.

"Whaddaya mean she's filing charges?" I asked back.

Chellick had finally called back. After I went from one Ward to another trying to find Zephi. And after I got beaten to a pulp. Not to mention going to really seedy bars, dealing with people whose reputation also preceded them, getting into a lot of gunfights and rescuing Zephi and two other asari. With help—unofficial, unsanctioned, definitely not C-Sec help, I might add. The point is, he didn't call back until _after _I caused some property damage. If I had known that, I would've done it from the beginning. Save myself a lot of grief.

Kinda like the grief I was suffering right now. I took a deep breath and gave him a quick summary: "A salarian scientist who got kicked out of academia for immoral experiments decided to set up shop in Chora's Den and continue said experiments. Specifically, he started abducting asari to see if they met his list of criteria. Zephi and two other asari did, so they got hooked up to a computer to create a hybrid alternative to AIs. When we—"

"We?" Chellick interrupted. "Who's 'we?'"

"A pair of civilians who wanted to make a difference," I replied. Seemed better to evade the issue rather than admit to a C-Sec officer, on duty and communicating over an unsecured channel, that an ex-C-Sec officer with a rather colourful history had joined forces with a quarian and a crazy psychotic vorcha. "Anyway, when we confronted the scientist—Dr. Belron—he killed himself. That triggered a dead man switch, one that was attached to an explosive device. We got the asari out, but didn't have time to disarm the bomb. So it went off."

"You realize what this means?"

"That a gas leak led to a fire that destroyed one of the most infamous establishments ever to inflict itself on the Citadel in the last twenty years?"

"And opened the door to a lot of paperwork. You just volunteered me for a ton of overtime."

"You're welcome," I replied cheerfully. Sometimes, it's _great _being unemployed. Or independently employed, even if it was on a sporadic and occasionally terrifying basis.

"Uh huh."

"Now what do you mean Ms. Bevos is pressing charges?"

"She came to C-Sec a half hour ago and reported that her daughter had been kidnapped. She claimed that the kidnapper was clever enough to fry her surveillance cams, but she got a good look at him personally. Guess who the perp looks like?"

"Septimus Oraka?"

"Ha!" Chellick barked. "Wouldn't that be nice?"

"You know," I recalled, "when she hired me, she said no one would kidnap her daughter because she wasn't important enough. Then again, she also said something about wanting to avoid being the target of malicious gossip."

"Having her daughter kidnapped would be less embarrassing," Chellick agreed. "Not to mention that it would be the hot topic at all the fancy parties she goes to. Of course, it means that the ex-cop she hired became the kidnapper of her daughter, but so what?"

"Got screwed over by a lady." I shook my head wearily. "Story of my life."

I heard Chellick sigh. "Look," he said. "You got Zephi out. That's enough. Get her to a kiosk or something, buy her a decent meal and scram. If C-Sec catches you with her, they'll have to take you in."

"Then I'll get to see a prison cell from the other side of the bars," I said, forcing a bit of cheer that I really wasn't feeling at the moment. "Maybe I'll get the top bunk." And make someone my bitch. I gotta believe that there's an upside to all this."

Chellick didn't say anything for a full minute—which was something of a miracle. "When C-Sec arrests you, don't put up a struggle," he finally said. "I'll tell them to go easy on you. Meanwhile, you might want to tell those outstanding citizens of yours to make themselves scarce."

"Thanks."

I cut the connection and turned to Geirk and Tali. "My client has apparently changed her mind," I told them. "Now she's accusing me of kidnapping her daughter. C-Sec's on the prowl."

"We kill them too, yes?" Geirk asked hopefully.

"NO!" Tali and I snapped in unison.

"Killjoy."

"Geirk, just..." I rubbed a hand over my face, feeling another migraine coming on. "Just take Liselle and get back to Omega, all right? Tali, get the other asari to safety.

"But what about you?" Tali asked.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine," I lied. "Go. Now."

They looked a little skeptical—which only meant that they had more working neurons than I did. Still, they didn't put up any further protest. I watched as they left, coaxing the other asari along.

"Why _are_ you staying?"

I turned around. Zephi was looking at me. "I heard everything," she said. "Mom hired you to find me, then she changed her mind and screwed you over. If the cops find us, you're going down. So why're you sticking around?"

"Because I have a thing about civvies in trouble," I shrugged. "Especially kids."

"Why do you care what happens to me?" Zephi wanted to know. "It's not like it gets you anywhere. Dad cares about me—but he's stuck working a dead-end job and never gets to see me. You care about me—and now you're gonna get thrown in the slammer. My 'friends' care about me—but half of them wind up leaving, while the other half didn't mean it in the first place. Only cared about what they could get hanging around an asari.

"They're like my mom. She only cares about what she can get. What she wants. Which isn't me. She just wants me to sit quietly, do my homework, get good grades and be the best in everything—just so she can show me off like some stupid prize and brag about how I'm better than everyone else's daughter. Otherwise, I'm just some annoying brat who's in her way."

"I'm..." I trailed off. What was I supposed to say? I'm sorry? It's not that bad? There's a reason clichés like that are so damn hollow.

Zephi leaned against the wall and slumped down until she was sitting on the floor. "You know what the funny thing is?" she asked, pulling her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arm around her legs. "When I was hooked up in that thing, none of that mattered. I didn't have to worry about pleasing anyone. I didn't have to feel alone. I didn't have to care. It was just—"

"—such a relief," I said in unison with her.

Her head jerked up. She looked at me in surprise. I realized how small she was.

"It's hard to care," I said, sitting down beside her. "Trust me. I know."

"Right," Zephi snorted.

"I used to be a cop," I continued, ignoring her. "Before all this. Worked with C-Sec. I wanted to make a difference. I _cared_. And all I got for my trouble was heartache. No one cared about all the good I was doing because it didn't count unless some form was filled out properly. No one cared about all the cases I solved because all the crooks would get off scot-free in court. No one cared about the little guy getting screwed over because the big guy had all the credits and credits talked. No one else seemed to care, I thought. So why should I?

"Then I met a human who believed that doing things properly was more important than taking shortcuts, even if it meant letting the bad guy win now and then. I met a human who was willing to fight side by side with aliens, even if it meant swallowing her own prejudices and questioning a lot of things she took for granted. I met a quarian who was willing to put her plans on hold and help total strangers, because she believed that they needed her help. I met a krogan who'd stuck his neck out for his own people time and time again, got screwed over for all his trouble, but was willing to try one more time. I met an asari who'd been laughed and teased and mocked for her beliefs, but still stuck it out anyway, believing that one day she'd been proved right.

"And, most importantly, I met a human who did all of the above. He took the time to do things right. He had no problems working with anyone, regardless of gender or species. He'd put his plans on hold to listen to people—I mean _really _listen—about who they were, what they did, what their problems were and whether they needed help. He put his neck on the line every other day and somehow managed to come out the other end without a scratch. He persevered in doing what he believed was important no matter how many times he was faced with scorn and scepticism.

"There are all sorts of people, Zephi. People who do these kinds of things for others. People who care—about other people besides themselves. About you. I know it might not seem that way right now—spirits know I've wondered on dozens of occasions. But they're out there. If you give up now, though, if you stop looking, then you might miss them."

I paused for a moment and dug around in my pocket. It took a bit of digging, but I dug it out. I held up an intricately carved piece of rock, roughly the size of a credit chit. "When I did my mandatory term of military service in the Hierarchy, every turian in my unit got one of these," I explained. "It represented the spirit of our unit; our honour, our courage, our belief that some things were worth fighting for. I want you to have it."

Zephi's eyes widened as I held it out to her. "Me? Really?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "Keep it as a reminder that no matter how bad things might get, they will get better later on."

She chewed her lower lip. "But what if C-Sec finds—"

"FREEZE!"

A pair of C-Sec officers—one salarian, one turian—ran towards us. "Don't move, Garrus!"

I looked back at Zephi and shrugged with a nonchalance I didn't really feel at the moment, "Like I said, things might be bad now," I told her. "But I have to believe that they'll get better."

* * *

The officers, Zephi and I took a C-Sec skycar back to HQ. When finding a runaway-slash-kidnapped child and her ex-cop-slash-troublemaker-slash-supposed kidnapper, it's generally a good idea _not _to escort them back via public transit. Call it common sense, formalized in paragraphs and sub-paragraphs of standard operating procedure. Seriously: there are several pages that try to cover all possible scenarios.

Our journey back took us over the charred, burned-out remnants of Chora's Den. We were several levels above it, mind you, but we could still see the smoke wafting from the ventilation shafts, dancing and meandering with the air currents. It was strange, looking back. How many arguments did I have with the criminal scum who drank its swill and ogled its whores? I'd lost track. That's how many times I'd gone there. And almost every time, I came away with nothing. The dirtbags got away. I wasn't allowed to get the evidence I needed. So why did I keep going back? Because I believed that justice had to be done.

Then I came back one more time with Shepard. Something a little more... _permanent _than words were used. We got what we needed and left. Now I had returned one last time. Guns were fired. Lives were lost. Lives were saved. And Chora's Den had gone up in flames. The cycle had been broken. So what was I supposed to do now?

Through the windows, I could see the shops and kiosks of the Lower Levels. It was strange, looking back. I'd never been one for shopping. A quick scan of their electronic catalogues was enough to confirm what I already knew: that I couldn't possibly afford any of their merchandise. But that wasn't enough for Shepard. He'd peruse each one in exhaustive detail, comparing the wares of one kiosk versus another, analyzing their strengths to select the items that best served our needs. Cost was no matter. He believed that he could find a way to afford the best of the best—and he was right. All he had to do was think outside the box... and choose to believe that certain concepts like right of ownership were more like guidelines than actual rules.

Not that he used every opportunity to flout or wilfully ignore the rules. There was that time on the Citadel, when we were waiting to pick up an illegal weapons shipment to further one of Chellick's investigations. Right there, in the atrium that I could glimpse through another set of windows. That's where we waited. Shepard had commented that some things were 'part of the game,' that you had to do and accept. Like figuring out a plan of action. Like waiting patiently for the right moment to strike. I agreed with all that. But there were some things I believed should not be tolerated. Like letting paperwork and poorly-thought out rules get in the way of getting the job done. Like letting dirtbags get away just because we didn't have enough 'evidence' to satisfy the judiciary.

I didn't realize it at the time, but Shepard was trying to offer a suggestion, if not teach me a lesson. He believed that there were some things that could be bent or reinterpreted depending on the situation. More importantly, he believed that there were some lines that should not be crossed. He had this way of knowing when things were murky, unclear and generally grey, and when things were firmly, simply black and white. It was a talent that I had never mastered. Still hadn't, come to think of it.

So much had happened in the last year. So many changes. I'd finally left C-Sec—though I did come back for a brief spell. I'd travelled across the galaxy. I'd fought dirtbags and geth and rachni. I'd bore witness to incredible discoveries, unimaginable horrors and terrifying truths. Events that I would never have witnessed within the safe walls of C-Sec and the Citadel.

It was too late for that, though. I couldn't put my head in the sand like the Earth ostrich and pretend it had never happened. I had to get out there and do something, whether helping to prepare the galaxy for the Reapers or just getting a few more dirtbags and scum off the streets.

And yet here I was, in C-Sec custody. Handcuffs locked in place and energized. I wouldn't be able to stop anyone from a jail cell. So why did I let the officers arrest me? I could have run. Zephi would have been safe in their capable hands while I got away. Best of both planets, as the humans say. So why did I stay behind?

Maybe I needed to show Zephi that not everybody would run out of her lonely life as soon as things got tough. Maybe, against my better judgement, I was more of a proper C-Sec officer and turian than I had thought. Maybe I needed to look at myself in the mirror.

Whatever the reason, or reasons, I'd made my choice and now I had to live with it. So I sat there silently as the C-Sec patrol skycar touched down on the landing pad. The C-Sec officers silently hauled my ass out of the skycar. And Zephi…

"Why aren't you listening to me? He didn't do it!"

…was loudly proclaiming my innocence. She'd been doing that the entire ride back. I had to admit, that was a very impressive set of vocal cords she had there. "I told you: I. Ran. Away. Do you guys know what that means? Run away? As in 'I did it?' As in 'No one kidnapped me, including this loser?"

"Hey!" I protested. That seemed a bit much.

She winked at me, then opened her mouth to begin another round of loud protests. As much as I appreciated her passionate and stirring defence, there was no denying the fact that all her words were falling on deaf ears. We'd had the misfortune of meeting two C-Sec officers who were firmly and decidedly by-the-book. For them, the situation was crystal clear: mother reported that her daughter had been kidnapped. Daughter and prime suspect for kidnapper had been found. Return them to C-Sec. Let the higher-ups figure it all out. End of story.

"Zephi!"

"Garrus!"

We turned around. "Dad!"

"Tali!"

Innocent turian and mean C-Sec officers forgotten, Zephi darted straight to Mr. Vietor and all but jumped into his arms. "I guess they'll have a little reunion after all," I said aloud, before turning to Tali. "What're you doing here?"

"Nice to see you too."

Oh come on. Really? "You know it's good to see you again, Tali," I sighed. "I'm just surprised, that's all."

"Well, against my better judgement, I was here to pay your bail."

"You were? Well, thanks—wait." As grateful as I was to see a friendly face—or helmet—something didn't make sense. "How could you afford all that?"

"Sold my Mark X Master assault rifle and sniper rifle."

"You did?"

"It's not like I use those weapons. Pistol and shotgun, sure. But the others? I don't think I fired them once."

I was floored. Stunned. Shocked, even. "And… and you thought of… me?"

"Maybe I felt a little sorry for you," Tali shrugged. "Like a sad little varren who'd been kicked one too many—oof!"

Whatever she was about to say was interrupted by yours truly, who was busy giving her the biggest hug I could muster—now that all the adrenaline had worn off, I was feeling the aches and pains from Torsk's pummelling again.

"Um… Garrus…?" Tali squeaked after a minute. "Hardsuit… integrity… failing…"

"Get a room, you two," Chellick said, coming up to us. "As for you two, you're dismissed."

That last part was directed at my escorts. They looked at each other, shrugged, then walked away. By that point, Tali and I had extricated ourselves from each other and were clearly and distinctly standing apart. "Chellick," I said slowly.

"Garrus."

"What's going on?"

"Ms. Bevos came back."

I rolled my eyes. "Great. What's she saying now?"

Chellick hesitated. "It would probably make more sense if I showed you."

"Huh?"

Ignoring me, he took me by the arm and hauled me off to the holding cells. I should mention that I was still in handcuffs at that point. So I might be forgiven for thinking that I was still getting thrown in the slammer. Tali came along, taking the place of Zephi—who was still hugging her dad—in protesting my innocence. Though the prospect of seeing me behind bars might have been a close second.

But we passed by all the holding cells—and every crook, thug, merc, dirtbag and drunk. In fact, we were heading to… "Uh… Chellick?"

"Yeah, Garrus?"

"I'm not crazy."

Chellick gave me a skeptical look. "I'm not so sure about that."

"Same here," Tali added.

They had a point there. "Let me try again: I'm not crazy enough to warrant being locked up in the isolation cells."

"You aren't," Chellick agreed. "She, on the other hand…"

We stopped in front of one of the psych ward cells, all nice and sterile and thoroughly padded. It held one occupant.

…

One very familiar occupant, sitting on the floor and rocking back and forth in the fetal position. "What is Ms. Bevos doing here, Chellick?" I asked.

"One of the officers found her outside C-Sec just before you burned Chora's Den to the ground."

"It wasn't me," I insisted. "It was the bomb."

"Yeah, yeah," Chellick dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Anyway, when we brought her in… it quickly became clear that she had suffered a traumatic event." He reached over to the control panel on the side of the cell and increased the gain from the audio feeds.

"Bad mother… yes… don't deserve daughter… no… bad mother… yes… don't deserve daughter… no… bad mother… yes… don't deserve daughter… no… bad mother… yes… don't deserve daughter… no…"

Tali and I turned to Chellick, who was eyeing me suspiciously. "You wouldn't know anything about this, would you?"

"Nope. This is news to me," I said honestly. Though I had my suspicions as to what had happened.

"Same here," Tali declared. She was probably thinking the same thing.

"Huh," was all Chellick had to say.

"Though I guess that since Ms. Bevos is clearly incapable of looking after Zephi, and Zephi is still a minor, someone else will have to take care of her," I said casually.

"It does seem that way," Chellick agreed, adopting my tone of voice. "Luckily for Zephi, her father seems more than willing to take her in. And I'm sure there won't be any legal troubles in granting him full custody for the short term, considering Ms. Bevos' mental state."

"Then I guess this case had a happy ending after all," I said. "Even if I didn't get paid."

"You can still get paid," Tali offered. "The credits I got to pay your bail could go towards your ticket to Omega instead. "Since I already sold those weapons."

"I… I don't know what to say," I admitted. "Thank you."

"That's a first," Tali replied. "And you're welcome."

"Yep."

"So all's well that ends well," I sighed. Turning to Chellick, I raised my bound hands and shook them at him. "You can remove these handcuffs now."

"Not just yet."

Crap. "What?"

Chellick looked at me, not even trying to hide the grin on his face. "Ms. Bevos pressed charges of kidnapping her child, remember? Given how she's no longer mentally fit, those charges will soon be dropped. But we do have to fill out the right forms, which takes time. Until then, well, I'm afraid we'll have to lock you up."

"You're enjoying this," I accused.

He burst into laughter as he shoved me into a cell. "Spirits, yes. I've been waiting for this day for _years_!"

"Fine," I sighed as the doors locked. "But you'll let me out soon, right?"

Chellick walked away. Tali looked back and forth between the two of us, then ran after Chellick. "Hey, Chellick!" I called out. "Did you hear me? You'll let me out soon?"

I heard his echoing laughter growing fainter and fainter. "Chellick? Chellick?"

No response.

He'd be back, I told myself. He'd let me go. I just had to hang in there.

And believe that things would get better.


End file.
